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THE    BOYS' 
LIFE    OF    MARK   TWAIN 


BOOKS  BT 
ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 

For  Young  Readers 

THE   BOYS'   LIFE   OF   MARK  TWAIN 
HOLLOW  TREE  NIGHTS  AND  DAYS 
THE  HOLLOW  TREE  AND   DEEP-WOODS  BOOK 
THE  HOLLOW  TREE  SNOWED-IN  BOOK 

Small  books  of  several  stories  each,  selected  from  the  above  Hollow  Tree  boohs  : 

HOW  MR.   DOQ  GOT  EVEN 

HOW  MR.   RABBIT   LOST  HIS   TAIL 

MR.   RABBIT'S   BIG   DINNER 

MAKING   UP   WITH    MR.   DOG 

MR.   'POSSUM'S  GREAT   BALLOON  TRIP 

WHEN  JACK   RABBIT   WAS  A  LITTLE  BOY 

For  Grown-ups 

MARK  TWAIN:   A   BIOOBAPHT 
TH.  NAST:  His  PERIOD  AND  His  PICTURES 
THE  SHIP-DWELLERS  (Humorous  travel) 
THE  TENT-DWELLERS  (Humorous  camping) 
FROM  VAN-DWELLER  TO  COMMUTER 

(Humorous,  home  life) 
PEANUT  (Story  of  a  boy) 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


SAM    CLEMENS    ON 

"LOVER'S  LEAP" 


I  See  paije  5 


THE    BOYS'   LIFE   OF 

Mark  Twain 

THE   STORY  OF   A; MAN   WHO 
MADE  THE  WORLD  LAUGH 
AND  LOVE  HIM 

BY 

ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 


AUTHOR   OF 

MARK  TWAIN:  A  BIOGRAPHY 


WITH     MANY     ANECDOTES 
LETTERS,  ILLUSTRATIONS,  ETC. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


BOYS'  LIFE  op  MARK  TWAIN 

Copyright.  1915.  1916.  by  Harper  &  Brothert 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September.  1916 


ps 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

PREFACE ix 

I.  THE  FAMILY  OF  JOHN  CLEMENS I 

II.  THE  NEW  HOME,  AND  UNCLE  JOHN  QUARLES'S 

FARM 7 

III.  SCHOOL 12 

IV.  EDUCATION  OUT  OF  SCHOOL 16 

V.  TOM  SAWYER  AND  His  BAND 24 

VI.  CLOSING  SCHOOL-DAYS 36 

VII.  THE  APPRENTICE 42 

VIII.  ORION'S  PAPER 47 

IX.  THE  OPEN  ROAD 52 

X.  A  WIND  OF  CHANCE 60 

XL              THE  LONG  WAY  TO  THE  AMAZON 66 

XII.  RENEWING  AN  OLD  AMBITION 70 

XIII.  LEARNING  THE  RIVER 75 

XIV.  RIVER  DAYS 82 

XV.  THE  WRECK  OF  THE  "PENNSYLVANIA"      ...  91 

XVI.  THE  PILOT 94 

XVII.  THE  END  OF  PILOTING 100 

XVIII.  THE  SOLDIER 103 

XIX.  THE  PIONEER 108 

XX.  THE  MINER 112 

XXL           THE  TERRITORIAL  ENTERPRISE 124 

XXII.  "MARK  TWAIN" 129 

XXIII.  ARTEMUS  WARD  AND  LITERARY  SAN  FRANCISCO  134 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  »*GB 

XXIV.  THE  DISCOVERY  OF  "THE  JUMPING  FROG"   .    .  141 

XXV.  HAWAII  AND  ANSON  BURLINGAME 148 

XXVI.  MARK  TWAIN,  LECTURER 153 

XXVII.  AN  INNOCENT  ABROAD,  AND  HOME  AGAIN     .    .  163 

XXVIII.  OLIVIA  LANGDON.    WORK  ON  THE  "INNOCENTS"  169 

XXIX.  THE  VISIT  TO  ELMIRA  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES  173 

XXX.  THE  NEW  BOOK  AND  A  WEDDING 178 

XXXI.  MARK  TWAIN  IN  BUFFALO 182 

XXXII.  AT  WORK  ON  "ROUGHING  IT" 186 

XXXIII.  IN  ENGLAND 189 

XXXIV.  A  NEW  BOOK  AND  NEW  ENGLISH  TRIUMPHS     .    .  192 

XXXV.  BEGINNING  "TOM  SAWYER" 198 

XXXVI.  THE  NEW  HOME 202 

XXXVII.  "OLD  TIMES,"  "SKETCHES,"  AND  "TOM  SAWYER"  205 

XXXVIII.  HOME  PICTURES 209 

XXXIX.  TRAMPING  ABROAD      212 

XL.             "THE  PRINCE  AND  THE  PAUPER" 219 

XLI.           GENERAL  GRANT  AT  HARTFORD 222 

XLII.          MANY  INVESTMENTS 225 

XLIII.        BACK  TO  THE  RIVER,  WITH  BIXBY 229 

XLIV.         A  READING-TOUR  WITH  CABLE 232 

XLV.  "THE  ADVENTURES  OF  HUCKLEBERRY  FINN"    .  236 

XLVI.         PUBLISHER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT 239 

XLVII.       THE  HIGH-TIDE  OF  FORTUNE 243 

XLVIII.  BUSINESS  DIFFICULTIES.    PLEASANTER  THINGS  .  246 
XLIX.  KIPLING  AT  ELMIRA.    ELSIE  LESLIE.    THE  "YAN- 
KEE"     256 

L.  THE  MACHINE.  GOOD-BY  TO  HARTFORD.  "JOAN" 

Is  BEGUN 261 

LI.  THE  FAILURE  OF  WEBSTER  &  Co.  AROUND  THE 

WORLD.  SORROW 271 

LII.  EUROPEAN  ECONOMIES                                        .  280 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  FACE 

LIII.  MARK  TWAIN  PAYS  His  DEBTS 284 

LIV.  RETURN  AFTER  EXILE 288 

LV.  '  A  PROPHET  AT  HOME 291 

LVI.  HONORED  BY  MISSOURI 295 

LVII.  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  LIFE 299 

LVIII.  MARK  TWAIN  AT  SEVENTY 303 

LIX.  MARK  TWAIN  ARRANGES  FOR  His  BIOGRAPHY  .    .  310 

LX.  WORKING  WITH  MARK  TWAIN 316 

LXI.  DICTATIONS  AT  DUBLIN,  N.  H .    .  321 

LXII.  A  NEW  ERA  OF  BILLIARDS 325 

LXIII.  LIVING  WITH  MARK  TWAIN 329 

LXIV.  A  DEGREE  FROM  OXFORD 332 

LXV.  THE  REMOVAL  TO  REDDING 335 

LXVI.  LIFE  AT  STORMFIELD 339 

LXVII.  THE  DEATH  OF  JEAN 343 

LXVIII.  DAYS  IN  BERMUDA 345 

LXIX.  THE  RETURN  TO  REDDING 349 

LXX.  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  GREAT  LIFE 352 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SAM  CLEMENS  ON  "LOVER'S  LEAP" Frontispiece 

JOHN  CLEMENS  AND  His  FAMILY  ON  THE  WAY  FROM 

EASTERN  MISSOURI  IN  1835 Fadnip.  4 

THE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  MARK  TWAIN "  4 

THE  SECOND  HOME  OF  THE  CLEMENS  FAMILY  AT 

FLORIDA  "  4 

TOM  SAWYER  AS  "THE  BLACK  AVENGER  OF  THE  SPANISH 

MAIN"  MUSTERS  His  PIRATE  BAND  ....  "  24 

MARK  TWAIN  AT  His  OLD  HOME,  HANNIBAL,  1902  .  "  24 

THE  "TOM  SAWYER"  STAIRWAY "  24 

HOME  OF  HUCK  FINN  ABOUT  1840-50 "  32 

THE  ENTRANCE  TO  "ToM  SAWYER'S"  CAVE  ...  "  32 

MARK  TWAIN  ARRIVING  IN  NEW  YORK  CITY  IN  1853  "  54 

THE  BOY  WHO  HATED  SCHOOL  HAS  BECOME  A  READER  54 
"BROWN,  THE  PILOT,  STOOD  IN  THE  Bow,  AND  I  TOOK 

THE  TILLER" "  86 

MARK  TWAIN  AND  "CAL"  HIGBIE  IN  THEIR  ESMERALDA 

CABIN 116 

MARK  TWAIN,  1867 "  164 

THE  STEAMSHIP  "QUAKER  CITY" 164 

CHARLES  J.  LANGDON  IN  1867 "  164 

OLIVIA  LANGDON,  1867 164 

A  SUCCESSFUL  ACCIDENT "  174 

A  PAGE  FROM  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  "THE  GILDED 

AGE" P»te     193 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FIRST  MANUSCRIPT  PAGE  OF  "TOM  SAWYER"    .    .    .     Pate     199 

ONE  VIEW  OF  THE  HARTFORD  HOUSE Facing  p.  202 

MRS.  CLEMENS  AND  THE  CHILDREN,  HARTFORD,  CONN., 

1884 "       202 

FACSIMILE  OF  GENERAL  GRANT'S  LAST  WRITING    .    .     Pott     240 

ELLERSLIE Faeimp.  244 

QUARRY  FARM,  ELMIRA,  N.  Y "       244 

DOWN  THE  RHONE — SKETCH  BY  MARK  TWAIN  .  .  Page  264 
THE  "LOST  NAPOLEON" — SKETCH  IN  NOTE-BOOK  .  "  265 
MARK  TWAIN'S  OPINION  OF  His  "  JOAN  OF  ARC"  BOOK, 

WRITTEN  ON  His  SEVENTY-THIRD  BIRTHDAY   .    .       "       275 

MARK  TWAIN  AS  HUCK  FINN Facing  p.  292 

MARK  TWAIN  AND  JOHN  BRIGGS,  1902 296 

MARK  TWAIN'S  SUGGESTED  TITLE-PAGE  FOR  His  MI- 
CROBE BOOK Page     305 

MARK  TWAIN  AND  ANDREW  CARNEGIE  AT  A  SIMPLIFIED 

SPELLING  DINNER "       322 

"WE  CELEBRATED  His  SEVENTY-FIRST  BIRTHDAY  BY 

PLAYING  BILLIARDS  ALL  DAY" Facing  p.  326 

THE  FIRST  WEEK  IN  REDDING,  1908 "       336 

STORMFIELD — JEAN  CLEMENS  AT  EIGHTEEN  ....       "       340 


PREFACE 

THIS  is  the  story  of  a  boy,  born  in  the  humblest 
surroundings,  reared  almost  without  schooling,  and 
amid  benighted  conditions  such  as  to-day  have  no 
existence,  yet  who  lived  to  achieve  a  world-wide 
fame;  to  attain  honorary  degrees  from  the  greatest 
universities  of  America  and  Europe;  to  be  sought 
by  statesmen  and  kings;  to  be  loved  and  honored  by 
all  men  in  all  lands,  and  mourned  by  them  when  he 
died.  It  is  the  story  of  one  of  the  world's  very  great 
men — the  story  of  Mark  Twain. 


THE    BOYS' 
LIFE  OF   MARK  TWAIN 


THE   FAMILY  OF  JOHN  CLEMENS 

ALONG  time  ago,  back  in  the  early  years  of 
another  century,  a  family  named  Clemens 
moved  from  eastern  Tennessee  to  eastern  Missouri — 
from  a  small,  unheard-of  place  called  Pall  Mall,  on 
Wolf  River,  to  an  equally  small  and  unknown  place 
called  Florida,  on  a  tiny  river  named  the  Salt. 

That  was  a  far  journey,  in  those  days,  for  railway 
trains  in  1835  had  not  reached  the  South  and  West, 
and  John  Clemens  and  his  family  traveled  in  an  old 
two-horse  barouche,  with  two  extra  riding-horses, 
on  one  of  which  rode  the  eldest  child,  Orion  Clemens, 
a  boy  of  ten,  and  on  the  other  Jennie,  a  slave  girl. 

In  the  carriage  with  the  parents  were  three  other 
children — Pamela  and  Margaret,  aged  eight  and  five, 
and  little  Benjamin,  three  years  old.  The  time  was 
spring,  the  period  of  the  Old  South,  and,  while  these 
youngsters  did  not  realize  that  they  were  passing 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

through  a  sort  of  Golden  Age,  they  must  have  en- 
joyed the  weeks  of  leisurely  journeying  toward  what 
was  then  the  Far  West — the  Promised  Land. 

The  Clemens  fortunes  had  been  poor  in  Tennes- 
see. John  Marshall  Clemens,  the  father,  was  a 
lawyer,  a  man  of  education;  but  he  was  a  dreamer, 
too,  full  of  schemes  that  usually  failed.  Born  in 
Virginia,  he  had  grown  up  in  Kentucky,  and  mar- 
ried there  Jane  Lampton,  of  Columbia,  a  descendant 
of  the  English  Lamp  tons  and  the  belle  of  her  region. 
They  had  left  Kentucky  for  Tennessee,  drifting  from 
one  small  town  to  another  that  was  always  smaller, 
and  with  dwindling  law-practice  John  Clemens  in 
time  had  been  obliged  to  open  a  poor  little  store, 
which  in  the  end  had  failed  to  pay.  Jennie  was  the 
last  of  several  slaves  he  had  inherited  from  his 
Virginia  ancestors.  Besides  Jennie,  his  fortune  now 
consisted  of  the  horses  and  barouche,  a  very  limited 
supply  of  money,  and  a  large,  unsalable  tract  of 
east  Tennessee  land,  which  John  Clemens  dreamed 
would  one  day  bring  his  children  fortune. 

Readers  of  the  Gilded  Age  will  remember  the 
journey  of  the  Hawkins  family  from  the  "Knobs" 
of  Tennessee  to  Missouri  and  the  important  part  in 
that  story  played  by  the  Tennessee  land.  Mark 
Twain  wrote  those  chapters,  and  while  they  are  not 
history,  but  fiction,  they  are  based  upon  fact,  and 
the  picture  they  present  of  family  hardship  and  strug- 
gle is  not  overdrawn.  The  character  of  Colonel 
Sellers,  who  gave  the  Hawkinses  a  grand  welcome 
to  the  new  home,  was  also  real.  In  life  he  was 
James  Lampton,  cousin  to  Mrs.  Clemens,  a  gentle 


THE    FAMILY   OF   JOHN   CLEMENS 

and  radiant  merchant  of  dreams,  who  believed  him- 
self heir  to  an  English  earldom  and  was  always  on 
the  verge  of  colossal  fortune.  With  others  of  the 
Lampton  kin,  he  was  already  settled  in  Missouri 
and  had  written  back  glowing  accounts;  though 
perhaps  not  more  glowing  than  those  which  had 
come  from  another  relative,  John  Quarles,  brother- 
in-law  to  Mrs.  Clemens,  a  jovial,  whole-hearted 
optimist,  well-loved  by  all  who  knew  him. 

It  was  a  June  evening  when  the  Clemens  family, 
with  the  barouche  and  the  two  outriders,  finally 
arrived  in  Florida,  and  the  place,  no  doubt,  seemed 
attractive  enough  then,  however  it  may  have  ap- 
peared later.  It  was  the  end  of  a  long  journey;  rel- 
atives gathered  with  fond  welcome;  prospects 
seemed  bright.  Already  John  Quarles  had  opened 
a  general  store  in  the  little  town.  Florida,  he  said, 
was  certain  to  become  a  city.  Salt  River  would 
be  made  navigable  with  a  series  of  locks  and  dams. 
He  offered  John  Clemens  a  partnership  in  his  busi- 
ness. 

Quarles,  for  that  time  and  place,  was  a  rich  man. 
Besides  his  store  he  had  a  farm  and  thirty  slaves. 
His  brother-in-law's  funds,  or  lack  of  them,  did  not 
matter.  The  two  had  married  sisters.  That  was 
capital  enough  for  his  hearty  nature.  So,  almost 
on  the  moment  of  arrival  in  the  new  land,  John 
Clemens  once  more  found  himself  established  in 
trade. 

The  next  thing  was  to  find  a  home.  There  were 
twenty-one  houses  in  Florida,  and  none  of  them 
large.  The  one  selected  by  John  and  Jane  Clemens 
3 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

had  two  main  rooms  and  a  lean-to  kitchen — a  small 
place  and  lowly — the  kind  of  a  place  that  so  often 
has  seen  the  beginning  of  exalted  lives.  Christianity 
began  with  a  babe  in  a  manger;  Shakespeare  first 
saw  the  light  in  a  cottage  at  Stratford;  Lincoln  en- 
tered the  world  by  way  of  a  leaky  cabin  in  Kentucky, 
and  into  the  narrow  limits  of  the  Clemens  home  in 
Florida,  on  a  bleak  autumn  day — November  30, 
1835 — there  was  born  one  who  under  the  name  of 
Mark  Twain  would  live  to  cheer  and  comfort  a 
tired  world. 

The  name  Mark  Twain  had  not  been  thought  of 
then,  and  probably  no  one  prophesied  favorably  for 
the  new-comer,  who  was  small  and  feeble,  and  not 
over-welcome  in  that  crowded  household.  They 
named  him  Samuel,  after  his  paternal  grandfather, 
and  added  Langhorne  for  an  old  friend — a  goodly 
burden  for  so  frail  a  wayfarer.  But  more  appro- 
priately they  called  him  "Little  Sam,"  or  "Sammy," 
which  clung  to  him  through  the  years  of  his  delicate 
childhood. 

It  seems  a  curious  childhood,  as  we  think  of  it 
now.  Missouri  was  a  slave  State — Little  Sam's  com- 
panions were  as  often  black  as  white.  All  the  chil- 
dren of  that  time  and  locality  had  negroes  for  play- 
mates, and  were  cared  for  by  them.  They  were  fond 
of  their  black  companions  and  would  have  felt  lost 
without  them.  The  negro  children  knew  all  the 
best  ways  of  doing  things — how  to  work  charms  and 
spells,  the  best  way  to  cure  warts  and  heal  stone- 
bruises,  and  to  make  it  rain,  and  to  find  lost  money. 
They  knew  what  signs  meant,  and  dreams,  and  how 
4 


JOHN  CLEMENS  AND  HIS  FAMILY  ON  THE  WAY  FROM    EASTERN  MISSOURI, 
IN  1835 


THE    BIRTHPLACE   OF   MARK   TWAIN 


The  second  home  of  the  Clemens  fam- 
ily  at  Florida.      The  house,  no  longer  in 


THE   FAMILY   OF   JOHN   CLEMENS 

to  keep  off  hoodoo;  and  all  negroes,  old  and  young, 
knew  any  number  of  weird  tales. 

John  Clemens  must  have  prospered  during  the 
early  years  of  his  Florida  residence,  for  he  added 
another  slave  to  his  household — Uncle  Ned,  a  man 
of  all  work — and  he  built  a  somewhat  larger  house, 
in  one  room  of  which,  the  kitchen,  was  a  big  fireplace. 
There  was  a  wide  hearth  and  always  plenty  of  wood, 
and  here  after  supper  the  children  would  gather, 
with  Jennie  and  Uncle  Ned,  and  the  latter  would 
tell  hair-lifting  tales  of  "ha'nts,"  and  lonely  roads, 
and  witch-work  that  would  make  his  hearers  shiver 
with  terror  and  delight,  and  look  furtively  over  their 
shoulders  toward  the  dark  window-panes  and  the 
hovering  shadows  on  the  walls.  Perhaps  it  was  not 
the  healthiest  entertainment,  but  it  was  the  kind 
to  cultivate  an  imagination  that  would  one  day 
produce  Tom  Sawyer  and  Huck  Finn. 

True,  Little  Sam  was  very  young  at  this  period, 
but  even  a  little  chap  of  two  or  three  would  under- 
stand most  of  that  fireside  talk,  and  get  impressions 
more  vivid  than  if  the  understanding  were  com- 
plete. He  was  barely  four  when  this  earliest  chap- 
ter of  his  life  came  to  a  close. 

John  Clemens  had  not  remained  satisfied  with 
Florida  and  his  undertakings  there.  The  town  had 
not  kept  its  promises.  It  failed  to  grow,  and  the 
lock-and-dam  scheme  that  would  make  Salt  River 
navigable  fell  through.  Then  one  of  the  children, 
Margaret,  a  black-eyed,  rosy  little  girl  of  nine,  sud- 
denly died.  This  was  in  August,  1839.  A  month  or 
two  later  the  saddened  family  abandoned  their  Flor- 
2  5 


THE  BOYS'  LIFE  OF  MARK  TWAIN 
r> 

ida  home  and  moved  in  wagons,  with  their  house- 
hold furnishings,  to  Hannibal,  a  Mississippi  River 
town,  thirty  miles  away.  There  was  only  one  girl 
left  now,  Pamela,  twelve  years  old,  but  there  was 
another  boy,  baby  Henry,  three  years  younger  than 
Little  Sam — four  boys  in  all. 


II 

THE   NEW   HOME,  AND  UNCLE  JOHN   QUARLES'S   FARM 

HANNIBAL  was  a  town  with  prospects  and  con- 
siderable trade.  It  was  slumbrous,  being  a  slave 
town,  but  it  was  not  dead.  John  Clemens  believed 
it  a  promising  place  for  business,  and  opened  a  small 
general  store  with  Orion  Clemens,  now  fifteen,  a  studi- 
ous, dreamy  lad,  for  clerk. 

The  little  city  was  also  an  attractive  place  of 
residence.  Mark  Twain  remembered  it  as  "the 
white  town  drowsing  in  the  sunshine  of  a  summer 
morning,  .  .  .  the  great  Mississippi,  the  magnificent 
Mississippi,  rolling  its  mile-wide  tide  along,  .  .  .  the 
dense  forest  away  on  the  other  side." 

The  "white  town"  was  built  against  green  hills, 
and  abutting  the  river  were  bluffs — Holliday's  Hill 
and  Lover's  Leap.  A  distance  below  the  town  was 
a  cave — a  wonderful  cave,  as  every  reader  of  Tom 
Sawyer  knows — while  out  in  the  river,  toward  the 
Illinois  shore,  was  the  delectable  island  that  was 
one  day  to  be  the  meeting-place  of  Tom's  pirate 
band,  and  later  to  become  the  hiding-place  of  Huck 
and  Nigger  Jim. 

The  river  itself  was  full  of  interest.  It  was  the 
7 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

highway  to  the  outside  world.  Rafts  drifted  by; 
smartly  painted  steamboats  panted  up  and  down, 
touching  to  exchange  traffic  and  travelers,  a  never- 
ceasing  wonder  to  those  simple  shut-in  dwellers 
whom  the  telegraph  and  railway  had  not  yet  reached. 
That  Hannibal  was  a  pleasant  place  of  residence  we 
may  believe,  and  what  an  attractive  place  for  a  boy 
to  grow  up  in ! 

Little  Sam,  however,  was  not  yet  ready  to  enjoy 
the  island  and  the  cave.  He  was  still  delicate — the 
least  promising  of  the  family.  He  was  queer  and 
fanciful,  and  rather  silent.  He  walked  in  his  sleep 
and  was  often  found  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
fretting  with  the  cold,  in  some  dark  corner.  Once 
he  heard  that  a  neighbor's  children  had  the  measles, 
and,  being  very  anxious  to  catch  the  complaint, 
slipped  over  to  the  house  and  crept  into  bed  with  an 
infected  playmate.  Some  days  later,  Little  Sam's 
relatives  gathered  about  his  bed  to  see  him  die. 
He  confessed,  long  after,  that  the  scene  gratified 
him.  However,  he  survived,  and  fell  into  the  habit 
of  running  away,  usually  in  the  direction  of  the 
river. 

"You  gave  me  more  uneasiness  than  any  child  I 
had,"  his  mother  once  said  to  him,  in  her  old  age. 

"I  suppose  you  were  afraid  I  wouldn't  live,"  he 
suggested. 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  keen  humor  which  had 
been  her  legacy  to  him.  "No,  afraid  you  would," 
she  said.  Which  was  only  her  joke,  for  she  had  the 
tenderest  of  hearts,  and,  like  all  mothers,  had  a 
weakness  for  the  child  that  demanded  most  of  her 
8 


THE   NEW   HOME 

mother's  care.  It  was  chiefly  on  his  account  that 
she  returned  each  year  to  Florida  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer on  John  Quarles's  farm. 

If  Uncle  John  Quarles's  farm  was  just  an  ordinary 
Missouri  farm,  and  his  slaves  just  average  negroes, 
they  certainly  never  seemed  so  to  Little  Sam.  There 
was  a  kind  of  glory  about  everything  that  belonged 
to  Uncle  John,  and  it  was  not  all  imagination,  for 
some  of  the  spirit  of  that  jovial,  kindly  hearted  man 
could  hardly  fail  to  radiate  from  his  belongings. 

The  farm  was  a  large  one  for  that  locality,  and  the 
farm-house  was  a  big  double  log  building — that  is, 
two  buildings  with  a  roofed-over  passage  between, 
where  in  summer  the  lavish  Southern  meals  were 
served,  brought  in  on  huge  dishes  by  the  negroes, 
and  left  for  each  one  to  help  himself.  Fried  chicken, 
roast  pig,  turkeys,  ducks,  geese,  venison  just  killed, 
squirrels,  rabbits,  partridges,  pheasants,  prairie- 
chickens,  green  corn,  watermelon — a  little  boy  who 
did  not  die  on  that  bill  of  fare  would  be  likely  to  get 
well  on  it,  and  to  Little  Sam  the  farm  proved  a 
life-saver. 

It  was,  in  fact,  a  heavenly  place  for  a  little  boy. 
In  the  corner  of  the  yard  there  were  hickory  and 
black-walnut  trees,  and  just  over  the  fence  the  hill 
sloped  past  barns  and  cribs  to  a  brook,  a  rare  place 
to  wade,  though  there  were  forbidden  pools.  Cousin 
Tabitha  Quarles,  called  "Puss,"  his  own  age,  was 
Little  Sam's  playmate,  and  a  slave  girl,  Mary,  who, 
being  six  years  older,  was  supposed  to  keep  them 
out  of  mischief.  There  were  swings  in  the  big, 
shady  pasture,  where  Mary  swung  her  charges  and 
9 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

ran  under  them  until  their  feet  touched  the  branches. 
All  the  woods  were  full  of  squirrels  and  birds  and 
blooming  flowers;  all  the  meadows  were  gay  with 
clover  and  butterflies,  and  musical  with  singing 
grasshoppers  and  calling  larks;  the  fence-rows  were 
full  of  wild  blackberries;  there  were  apples  and 
peaches  in  the  orchard,  and  plenty  of  melons  ripen- 
ing in  the  corn.  Certainly  it  was  a  glorious  place ! 

Little  Sam  got  into  trouble  once  with  the  water- 
melons. One  of  them  had  not  ripened  quite  enough 
when  he  ate  several  slices  of  it.  Very  soon  after  he 
was  seized  with  such  terrible  cramps  that  some  of 
the  household  did  not  think  he  could  live. 

But  his  mother  said:  "Sammy  will  pull  through. 
He  was  not  born  to  die  that  way."  Which  was  a 
true  prophecy.  Sammy's  slender  constitution  with- 
stood the  strain.  It  was  similarly  tested  more  than 
once  during  those  early  years.  He  was  regarded  as 
a  curious  child.  At  times  dreamy  and  silent,  again 
wild-headed  and  noisy,  with  sudden  impulses  that 
sent  him  capering  and  swinging  his  arms  into  the 
wind  until  he  would  fall  with  shrieks  and  spasms  of 
laughter  and  madly  roll  over  and  over  in  the  grass. 
It  is  not  remembered  that  any  one  prophesied  very 
well  for  his  future  at  such  times. 

The  negro  quarters  on  Uncle  John's  farm  were 
especially  fascinating.  In  one  cabin  lived  a  bed- 
ridden old  woman  whom  the  children  looked  upon 
with  awe.  She  was  said  to  be  a  thousand  years  old, 
and  to  have  talked  with  Moses.  She  had  lost  her 
health  in  the  desert,  coming  out  of  Egypt.  She  had 
seen  Pharaoh  drown,  and  the  fright  had  caused  the 

10 


THE    NEW    HOME 

bald  spot  on  her  head.  She  could  ward  off  witches 
and  dissolve  spells. 

Uncle  Dan'l  was  another  favorite,  a  kind-hearted, 
gentle  soul,  who  long  after,  as  Nigger  Jim  in  the 
Tom  Sawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn  tales,  would  win 
world-wide  love  and  sympathy. 

Through  that  far-off,  warm,  golden  summer-time 
Little  Sam  romped  and  dreamed  and  grew.  He 
would  return  each  summer  to  the  farm  during  those 
early  years.  It  would  become  a  beautiful  memory. 
His  mother  generally  kept  him  there  until  the  late 
fall,  when  the  chilly  evenings  made  them  gather 
around  the  wide,  blazing  fireplace.  Sixty  years  later 
he  wrote : 

I  can  see  the  room  yet  with  perfect  clearness.  I  can 
see  all  its  belongings,  all  its  details;  the  family-room 
of  the  house,  with  the  trundle-bed  in  one  corner  and  the 
spinning-wheel  in  another — a  wheel  whose  rising  and 
falling  wail,  heard  from  a  distance,  was  the  mournfulest 
of  all  sounds  to  me  and  made  me  homesick  and  low-spirited 
and  filled  my  atmosphere  with  the  wandering  spirits  of 
the  dead;  the  vast  fireplace,  piled  high  with  flaming  logs 
from  whose  ends  a  sugary  sap  bubbled  out  but  did  not  go 
to  waste,  for  we  scraped  it  off  and  ate  it;  ...  the  lazy 
cat  spread  out  on  the  rough  hearthstones,  the  drowsy  dogs 
braced  against  the  jambs,  blinking;  my  aunt  in  one 
chimney-corner,  and  my  uncle  in  the  other,  smoking  his 
corn-cob  pipe. 

It  is  hard  not  to  tell  more  of  the  farm,  for  the  boy 
who  was  one  day  going  to  write  of  Tom  and  Huck 
and  the  rest  learned  there  so  many  things  that  Tom 
and  Huck  would  need  to  know. 
ii 


Ill 

SCHOOL 

BUT  he  must  have  "book -learning,"  too,  Jane 
Clemens  said.  On  his  return  to  Hannibal  that 
first  summer,  she  decided  that  Little  Sam  was  ready 
for  school.  He  was  five  years  old  and  regarded  as  a 
"stirring  child." 

"He  drives  me  crazy  with  his  didoes  when  he's 
in  the  house,"  his  mother  declared,  "and  when  he's 
out  of  it  I'm  expecting  every  minute  that  some  one 
will  bring  him  home  half  dead." 

Mark  Twain  used  to  say  that  he  had  had  nine 
narrow  escapes  from  drowning,  and  it  was  at  this 
early  age  that  he  was  brought  home  one  afternoon 
in  a  limp  state,  having  been  pulled  from  a  deep  hole 
in  Bear  Creek  by  a  slave  girl. 

When  he  was  restored,  his  mother  said:  "I  guess 
there  wasn't  much  danger.  People  born  to  be 
hanged  are  safe  in  water." 

Mark  Twain's  mother  was  the  original  of  Aunt 
Polly  in  the  story  of  Tom  Sawyer,  an  outspoken, 
keen-witted,  charitable  woman,  whom  it  was  good 
to  know.  She  had  a  heart  full  of  pity,  especially  for 
dumb  creatures.  She  refused  to  kill  even  flies,  and 


SCHOOL 

punished  the  cat  for  catching  mice.  She  would 
drown  young  kittens  when  necessary,  but  warmed 
the  water  for  the  purpose.  She  could  be  strict,  how- 
ever, with  her  children,  if  occasion  required,  and 
recognized  their  faults. 

Little  Sam  was  inclined  to  elaborate  largely  on 
fact.  A  neighbor  once  said  to  her:  "You  don't  be- 
lieve anything  that  child  says,  I  hope." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  his  average.  I  discount  him 
ninety  per  cent.  The  rest  is  pure  gold." 

She  declared  she  was  willing  to  pay  somebody  to 
take  him  off  her  hands  for  a  part  of  each  day  and 
try  to  teach  him  "manners."  A  certain  Mrs.  E. 
Horr  was  selected  for  the  purpose. 

Mrs.  Horr's  school  on  Main  Street,  Hannibal,  was 
of  the  old-fashioned  kind.  There  were  pupils  of  all 
ages,  and  everything  was  taught  up  to  the  third 
reader  and  long  division.  Pupils  who  cared  to  go 
beyond  those  studies  went  to  a  Mr.  Cross,  on  the  hill, 
facing  what  is  now  the  public  square.  Mrs.  Horr 
received  twenty-five  cents  a  week  for  each  pupil,  and 
the  rules  of  conduct  were  read  daily.  After  the 
rules  came  the  A-B-C  class,  whose  recitation  was  a 
hand-to-hand  struggle,  requiring  no  study-time. 

The  rules  of  conduct  that  first  day  interested 
Little  Sam.  He  wondered  how  nearly  he  could  come 
to  breaking  them  and  escape.  He  experimented 
during  the  forenoon,  and  received  a  warning.  An- 
other experiment  would  mean  correction.  He  did 
not  expect  to  be  caught  again;  but  when  he  least 
expected  it  he  was  startled  by  a  command  to  go 
out  and  bring  a  stick  for  his  own  punishment. 
13 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

This  was  rather  dazing.  It  was  sudden,  and,  then, 
he  did  not  know  much  about  choosing  sticks  for  such 
a  purpose.  Jane  Clemens  had  commonly  used  her 
hand.  A  second  command  was  needed  to  start  him 
in  the  right  direction,  and  he  was  still  dazed  when  he 
got  outside.  He  had  the  forests  of  Missouri  to  select 
from,  but  choice  was  not  easy.  Everything  looked 
too  big  and  competent.  Even  the  smallest  switch 
had  a  wiry  look.  Across  the  way  was  a  cooper's 
shop.  There  were  shavings  outside,  and  one  had 
blown  across  just  in  front  of  him.  He  picked  it  up, 
and,  gravely  entering  the  room,  handed  it  to  Mrs. 
Horr.  So  far  as  known,  it  is  the  first  example  of 
that  humor  which  would  one  day  make  Little  Sam 
famous  before  all  the  world. 

It  was  a  failure  in  this  instance.  Mrs.  Horr's 
comic  side  may  have  prompted  forgiveness,  but 
discipline  must  be  maintained. 

"Samuel  Langhorne  Clemens,"  she  said  (he  had 
never  heard  it  all  strung  together  in  that  ominous 
way),  "I  am  ashamed  of  you!  Jimmy  Dunlap,  go 
and  bring  a  switch  for  Sammy."  And  the  switch 
that  Jimmy  Dunlap  brought  was  of  a  kind  to  give 
Little  Sam  a  permanent  distaste  for  school.  He 
told  his  mother  at  noon  that  he  did  not  care  for 
education;  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  a  great  man; 
that  his  desire  was  to  be  an  Indian  and  scalp  such 
persons  as  Mrs.  Horr.  In  her  heart  Jane  Clemens 
was  sorry  for  him,  but  she  openly  said  she  was  glad 
there  was  somebody  who  could  take  him  in  hand. 

Little  Sam  went  back  to  school,  but  he  never 
learned  to  like  it.  A  school  was  ruled  with  a  rod 
14 


SCHOOL 

in  those  days,  and  of  the  smaller  boys  Little  Sam's 
back  was  sore  as  often  as  the  next.  When  the  days 
of  early  summer  came  again,  when  from  his  desk  he 
could  see  the  sunshine  lighting  the  soft  green  of 
Holliday's  Hill,  with  the  glint  of  the  river  and  the 
purple  distance  beyond,  it  seemed  to  him  that  to  be 
shut  up  with  a  Webster  spelling-book  and"  a  cross 
teacher  was  more  than  human  nature  could  bear. 
There  still  exists  a  yellow  slip  of  paper  upon  which, 
in  neat,  old-fashioned  penmanship  is  written: 

Miss  PAMELA  CLEMENS 

Has  won  the  love  of  her  teacher  and  schoolmates  by 
her  amiable  deportment  and  faithful  application  to  her 
various  studies. 

E.  HORR,  Teacher. 

Thus  we  learn  that  Little  Sam's  sister,  eight  years 
older  than  himself,  attended  the  same  school,  and 
that  she  was  a  good  pupil.  If  any  such  reward  of 
merit  was  ever  conferred  on  Little  Sam,  it  has  failed 
to  come  to  light.  If  he  won  the  love  of  his  teacher 
and  playmates,  it  was  probably  for  other  reasons. 

Yet  he  must  have  learned  somehow,  for  he  could 
read,  presently,  and  was  a  good  speller  for  his  age. 


IV 

EDUCATION   OUT   OP   SCHOOL 

ON  their  arrival  in  Hannibal,  the  Clemens  fam- 
ily had  moved  into  a  part  of  what  was  then 
the  Pavey  Hotel.  They  could  not  have  remained 
there  long,  for  they  moved  twice  within  the  next 
few  years,  and  again  in  1844  into  a  new  house  which 
Judge  Clemens,  as  he  was  generally  called,  had  built 
on  Hill  Street — a  house  still  standing,  and  known 
to-day  as  the  Mark  Twain  home. 

John  Clemens  had  met  varying  fortunes  in  Han- 
nibal. Neither  commerce  nor  the  practice  of  law 
had  paid.  The  office  of  justice  of  the  peace,  to 
which  he  was  elected,  returned  a  fair  income,  but 
his  business  losses  finally  obliged  him  to  sell  Jennie, 
the  slave  girl.  Somewhat  later  his  business  failure 
was  complete.  He  surrendered  everything  to  his 
creditors,  even  to  his  cow  and  household  furniture, 
and  relied  upon  his  law  practice  and  justice  fees. 
However,  he  seems  to  have  kept  the  Tennessee  land, 
possibly  because  no  one  thought  it  worth  taking. 
There  had  been  offers  for  it  earlier,  but  none  that 
its  owner  would  accept.  It  appears  to  have  been 
not  even  considered  by  his  creditors,  though  his 
own  faith  in  it  never  died. 
16 


EDUCATION   OUT   OF    SCHOOL 

The  struggle  for  a  time  was  very  bitter.  Orion 
Clemens,  now  seventeen,  had  learned  the  printer's 
trade  and  assisted  the  family  with  his  wages.  Mrs. 
Clemens  took  a  few  boarders.  In  the  midst  of  this 
time  of  hardship  little  Benjamin  Clemens  died.  He 
was  ten  years  old.  It  was  the  darkest  hour. 

Then  conditions  slowly  improved.  There  was 
more  law  practice  and  better  justice  fees.  By  1844 
Judge  Clemens  was  able  to  build  the  house  men- 
tioned above — a  plain,  cheap  house,  but  a  shelter 
and  a  home.  Sam  Clemens — he  was  hardly  "Little 
Sam"  any  more — was  at  this  time  nine  years  old. 
His  boyhood  had  begun. 

Heretofore  he  had  been  just  a  child — wild  and 
mischievous,  often  exasperating,  but  still  a  child — 
a  delicate  little  lad  to  be  worried  over,  mothered,  or 
spanked  and  put  to  bed.  Now  at  nine  he  had 
acquired  health,  with  a  sturdy  ability  to  look  out 
for  himself,  as  boys  in  such  a  community  will. 
"Sam,"  as  they  now  called  him,  was  "grown  up"  at 
nine  and  wise  for  his  years.  Not  that  he  was  old  in 
spirit  or  manner — he  was  never  that,  even  to  his 
death — but  he  had  learned  a  great  number  of  things, 
many  of  them  of  a  kind  not  taught  at  school. 

He  had  learned  a  good  deal  of  natural  history  and 
botany — the  habits  of  plants,  insects,  and  animals. 
Mark  Twain's  books  bear  evidence  of  this  early 
study.  His  plants,  bugs,  and  animals  never  do  the 
wrong  things.  He  was  learning  a  good  deal  about 
men,  and  this  was  often  less  pleasant  knowledge. 
Once  Little  Sam — he  was  still  Little  Sam  then — 
saw  an  old  man  shot  down  on  Main  Street  at  noon- 
17 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

day.  He  saw  them  cany  him  home,  lay  him  on 
the  bed,  and  spread  on  his  breast  an  open  family 
Bible,  which  looked  as  heavy  as  an  anvil.  He 
thought  if  he  could  only  drag  that  great  burden 
away  the  poor  old  dying  man  would  not  breathe  so 
heavily. 

He  saw  a  young  emigrant  stabbed  with  a  bowie- 
knife  by  a  drunken  comrade,  and  two  young  men  try 
to  kill  their  uncle,  one  holding  him  while  the  other 
snapped  repeatedly  an  Allen  revolver,  which  failed 
to  go  off.  Then  there  was  the  drunken  rowdy  who 
proposed  to  raid  the  "Welshman's"  house,  one  sul- 
try, threatening  evening — he  saw  that,  too.  With 
a  boon  companion,  John  Briggs,  he  followed  at  a 
safe  distance  behind.  A  widow  with  her  one  daugh- 
ter lived  there.  They  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
dark  porch;  the  man  had  paused  at  the  gate  to 
revile  them.  The  boys  heard  the  mother's  voice 
warning  the  intruder  that  she  had  a  loaded  gun  and 
would  kill  him  if  he  stayed  where  he  was.  He  re- 
plied with  a  tirade,  and  she  warned  him  that  she 
would  count  ten — that  if  he  remained  a  second 
longer  she  would  fire.  She  began  slowly  and  counted 
up  to  five,  the  man  laughing  and  jeering.  At  six 
he  grew  silent,  but  he  did  not  go.  She  counted  on : 
seven,  eight,  nine — 

The  boys,  watching  from  the  dark  roadside,  felt 
their  hearts  stop.  There  was  a  long  pause,  then  the 
final  count,  followed  a  second  later  by  a  gush  of 
flame.  The  man  dropped,  his  breast  riddled.  At 
the  same  instant  the  thunder-storm  that  had  been 
gathering  broke  loose.  The  boys  fled  wildly,  be- 
18 


EDUCATION   OUT   OF   SCHOOL 

lieving  that  Satan  himself  had  arrived  to  claim  the 
lost  soul. 

That  was  a  day  and  locality  of  violent  impulse 
and  sudden  action.  Happenings  such  as  these  were 
not  infrequent  in  a  town  like  Hannibal.  And  there 
were  events  connected  with  slavery.  Sam  once  saw 
a  slave  struck  down  and  killed  with  a  piece  of  slag, 
for  a  trifling  offense.  He  saw  an  Abolitionist  at- 
tacked by  a  mob  that  would  have  lynched  him  had 
not  a  Methodist  minister  defended  him  on  a  plea 
that  he  must  be  crazy.  He  did  not  remember  in 
later  years  that  he  had  ever  seen  a  slave  auction,  but 
he  added: 

"I  am  suspicious  that  it  was  because  the  thing  was 
a  commonplace  spectacle  and  not  an  uncommon  or 
impressive  one.  I  do  vividly  remember  seeing  a 
dozen  black  men  and  women,  chained  together, 
lying  in  a  group  on  the  pavement,  waiting  ship- 
ment to  a  Southern  slave-market.  They  had  the 
saddest  faces  I  ever  saw." 

Readers  of  Mark  Twain's  books — especially  the 
stories  of  Huck  and  Tom,  will  hardly  be  surprised  to 
hear  of  these  early  happenings  that  formed  so  large 
a  portion  of  the  author's  early  education.  Sam, 
however,  did  not  regard  them  as  education — not  at 
the  time.  They  got  into  his  dreams.  He  set  them 
down  as  warnings,  or  punishments,  intended  to  give 
him  a  taste  for  a  better  life.  He  felt  that  it  was  his 
conscience  that  made  such  things  torture  him. 
That  was  his  mother's  idea,  and  he  had  a  high  re- 
spect for  her  opinion  in  such  matters.  Among  other 
things,  he  had  seen  her  one  day  defy  a  vicious  and 
19 


THE    BOYS*    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

fierce  Corsican — a  common  terror  in  the  town — who 
had  chased  his  grown  daughter  with  a  heavy  rope 
in  his  hand,  declaring  he  would  wear  it  out  on  her. 
Cautious  citizens  got  out  of  the  way,  but  Jane 
Clemens  opened  her  door  to  the  fugitive;  then,  in- 
stead of  rushing  in  and  closing  it,  spread  her  arms 
across  it,  barring  the  way.  The  man  raved,  and 
threatened  her  with  the  rope,  but  she  did  not  flinch 
or  show  any  sign  of  fear.  She  stood  there  and  shamed 
and  defied  him  until  he  slunk  off,  crestfallen  and 
conquered.  Any  one  as  brave  as  his  mother  must 
have  a  perfect  conscience,  Sam  thought,  and  would 
know  how  to  take  care  of  it.  In  the  darkness  he 
would  say  his  prayers,  especially  when  a  thunder- 
storm was  coming,  and  vow  to  begin  a  better  life. 
He  detested  Sunday-school  as  much  as  he  did  day- 
school,  and  once  his  brother  Orion,  who  was  moral 
and  religious,  had  threatened  to  drag  him  there  by 
the  collar,  but,  as  the  thunder  got  louder,  Sam  de- 
cided that  he  loved  Sunday-school  and  would  go 
the  next  Sunday  without  being  invited. 

Sam's  days  were  not  all  disturbed  by  fierce 
events.  They  were  mostly  filled  with  pleasanter 
things.  There  were  picnics  sometimes,  and  ferry- 
boat excursions,  and  any  day  one  could  roam  the 
woods,  or  fish,  alone  or  in  company.  The  hills  and 
woods  around  Hannibal  were  never  disappointing. 
There  was  the  cave  with  its  marvels.  There  was 
Bear  Creek,  where  he  had  learned  to  swim.  He  had 
seen  two  playmates  drown;  twice,  himself,  he  had 
been  dragged  ashore,  more  dead  than  alive;  once  by 
a  slave  girl,  another  time  by  a  slave  man — Neal 


EDUCATION   OUT   OF   SCHOOL 

Champ,  of  the  Pavey  Hotel.  But  he  had  persevered, 
and  with  success.  He  could  swim  better  than  any 
playmate  of  his  age. 

It  was  the  nver  that  he  cared  for  most.  It  was 
the  pathway  that  led  to  the  great  world  outside. 
He  would  sit  by  it  for  hours  and  dream.  He  would 
venture  out  on  it  in  a  quietly  borrowed  boat,  when 
he  was  barely  strong  enough  to  lift  an  oar.  He 
learned  to  know  all  its  moods  and  phases. 

More  than  anything  in  the  world  he  hungered  to 
make  a  trip  on  one  of  the  big,  smart  steamers  that 
were  always  passing.  "You  can  hardly  imagine 
what  it  meant,"  he  reflected,  once,  "to  a  boy  in 
those  days,  shut  in  as  we  were,  to  see  those  steam- 
boats pass  up  and  down,  and  never  take  a  trip  on 
them." 

It  was  at  the  mature  age  of  nine  that  he  found 
he  could  endure  this  no  longer.  One  day  when  the 
big  packet  came  down  and  stopped  at  Hannibal,  he 
slipped  aboard  and  crept  under  one  of  the  boats  on 
the  upper  deck.  Then  the  signal-bells  rang,  the 
steamer  backed  away  and  swung  into  midstream; 
he  was  really  going  at  last.  He  crept  from  beneath 
the  boat  and  sat  looking  out  over  the  water  and  en- 
joying the  scenery.  Then  it  began  to  rain — a  regu- 
lar downpour.  He  crept  back  under  the  boat,  but 
his  legs  were  outside,  and  one  of  the  crew  saw  him. 
He  was  dragged  out  and  at  the  next  stop  set  ashore. 
It  was  the  town  of  Louisiana,  where  there  were 
Lampton  relatives,  who  took  him  home.  Very  likely 
the  home-coming  was  not  entirely  pleasant,  though 
a  "lesson,"  too,  in  his  general  education. 
3  21 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

And  always,  each  summer,  there  was  the  farm, 
where  his  recreation  was  no  longer  mere  girl  plays 
and  swings,  with  a  colored  nurse  following  about, 
but  sports  with  his  older  boy  cousins,  who  went 
hunting  with  the  men,  for  partridges  by  day  and 
for  'coons  and  'possums  by  night.  Sometimes  the 
little  boy  followed  the  hunters  all  night  long,  and 
returned  with  them  through  the  sparkling  and 
fragrant  morning,  fresh,  hungry,  and  triumphant, 
just  in  time  for  breakfast.  So  it  is  no  wonder  that 
Little  Sam,  at  nine,  was  no  longer  Little  Sam,  but 
plain  Sam  Clemens,  and  grown  up.  If  there  were 
doubtful  spots  in  his  education — matters  related  to 
smoking  and  strong  words — it  is  also  no  wonder, 
and  experience  even  in  these  lines  was  worth  some- 
thing in  a  book  like  Tom  Sawyer. 

The  boy  Sam  Clemens  was  not  a  particularly 
attractive  lad.  He  was  rather  undersized,  and  his 
head  seemed  too  large  for  his  body.  He  had  a  mass 
of  light  sandy  hair,  which  he  plastered  down  to  keep 
from  curling.  His  eyes  were  keen  and  blue  and  his 
features  rather  large.  Still,  he  had  a  fair,  delicate 
complexion  when  it  was  not  blackened  by  grime  and 
tan;  a  gentle,  winning  manner;  a  smile  and  a  slow 
way  of  speaking  that  made  him  a  favorite  with  his 
companions.  He  did  not  talk  much,  and  was  thought 
to  be  rather  dull — was  certainly  so  in  most  of  his 
lessons — but,  for  some  reason,  he  never  spoke  that 
every  playmate  in  hearing  did  not  stop,  whatever  he 
was  doing,  to  listen.  Perhaps  it  would  be  a  plan  for 
a  new  game  or  lark;  perhaps  it  was  something  droll; 
perhaps  it  was  just  a  casual  remark  that  his  peculiar 


EDUCATION   OUT   OF   SCHOOL 

drawl  made  amusing.  His  mother  always  referred 
to  his  slow  fashion  of  speech  as  "Sammy's  long  talk." 
Her  own  speech  was  even  more  deliberate,  though 
she  seemed  not  to  notice  it.  Sam  was  more  like  his 
mother  than  the  others.  His  brother,  Henry  Clem- 
ens, three  years  younger,  was  as  unlike  Sam  as 
possible.  He  did  not  have  the  "long  talk,"  and  was 
a  handsome,  obedient  little  fellow  whom  the  mis- 
chievous Sam  loved  to  tease.  Henry  was  to  become 
the  Sid  of  Tom  Sawyer,  though  he  was  in  every  way 
a  finer  character  than  Sid.  With  the  death  of  little 
Benjamin,  Sam  and  Henry  had  been  drawn  much 
closer  together,  and,  in  spite  of  Sam's  pranks,  loved 
each  other  dearly.  For  the  pranks  were  only  occa- 
sional, and  Sam's  love  for  Henry  was  constant.  He 
fought  for  him  oftener  than  with  him. 

Many  of  the  home  incidents  in  the  Tom  Sawyer 
book  really  happened.  Sam  did  clod  Henry  for 
getting  him  into  trouble  about  the  colored  thread 
with  which  he  sewed  his  shirt  when  he  came  home 
from  swimming;  he  did  inveigle  a  lot  of  boys  into 
whitewashing  a  fence  for  him;  he  did  give  pain- 
killer to  Peter,  the  cat.  As  for  escaping  punish- 
ment for  his  misdeeds,  as  described  in  the  book,  this 
was  a  daily  matter,  and  his  methods  suited  the 
occasions.  For,  of  course,  Tom  Sawyer  was  Sam 
Clemens  himself,  almost  entirely,  as  most  readers 
of  that  book  have  imagined.  However,  we  must 
have  another  chapter  for  Tom  Sawyer  and  his  doings 
— the  real  Tom  and  his  real  doings  with  those  grace- 
less, lovable  associates,  Joe  Harper  and  Huckleberry 
Finn. 


TOM   SAWYER   AND   HIS   BAND 

IN  beginning  The  Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer  the 
author  says,  "Most  of  the  adventures  recorded  in 
this  book  really  occurred,"  and  he  tells  us  that 
Huck  Finn  is  olrawn  from  life;  Tom  Sawyer  also, 
though  not  from  a  single  individual,  being  a  com- 
posite of  three  boys  whom  Mark  Twain  had  known. 

The  three  boys  were  himself,  almost  entirely,  with 
traces  of  two  schoolmates,  John  Briggs  and  Will 
Bowen.  John  Briggs  was  also  the  original  of  Joe 
Harper,  the  "Terror  of  the  Seas."  As  for  Huck 
Finn,  the  "Red-Handed,"  his  original  was  a  village 
waif  named  Tom  Blankenship,  who  needed  no 
change  for  his  part  in  the  story. 

The  Blankenship  family  picked  up  an  uncertain 
livelihood,  fishing  and  hunting,  and  lived  at  first 
under  a  tree  in  a  bark  shanty,  but  later  moved  into 
a  large,  barn-like  building,  back  of  the  Clemens 
home  on  Hill  Street.  There  were  three  male  mem- 
bers of  the  household:  Old  Ben,  the  father,  shiftless 
and  dissolute;  young  Ben,  the  eldest  son — a  doubt- 
ful character,  with  certain  good  traits;  and  Tom — 
that  is  to  say,  Huck,  who  was  just  as  he  is  described 
24 


TOM     SAWYER,      AS     "THE     BLACK     AVENGER     OF     THE     SPANISH     MAIN, 
MUSTERS   HIS   PIRATE   BAND 


MARK   TWAIN   AT   HIS   OLD   HOME, 
HANNIBAL,   IQO2 


THE  "TOM  SAWYER"  STAIRWAY' 


TOM    SAWYER   AND    HIS    BAND 

in  the  book — a  ruin  of  rags,  a  river-rat,  kind  of 
heart,  and  accountable  for  his  conduct  to  nobody  in 
the  world.  He  could  come  and  go  as  he  chose;  he 
never  had  to  work  or  go  to  school;  he  could  do  all 
the  things,  good  and  bad,  that  other  boys  longed  to 
do  and  were  forbidden.  To  them  he  was  the  symbol 
of  liberty;  his  knowledge  of  fishing,  trapping,  signs, 
and  of  the  woods  and  river  gave  value  to  his  society, 
while  the  fact  that  it  was  forbidden  made  it  neces- 
sary to  Sam  Clemens's  happiness. 

The  Blankenships  being  handy  to  the  back  gate 
of  the  Hill  Street  house,  he  adopted  them  at  sight. 
Their  free  mode  of  life  suited  him.  He  was  likely  to 
be  there  at  any  hour  of  the  day,  and  Tom  made 
cat-call  signals  at  night  that  would  bring  Sam  out 
on  the  shed  roof  at  the  back  and  down  a  little  trellis 
and  flight  of  steps  to  the  group  of  boon  companions, 
which,  besides  Tom,  usually  included  John  Briggs, 
Will  Pitts,  and  the  two  younger  Bowen  boys.  They 
were  not  malicious  boys,  but  just  mischievous,  fun- 
loving  boys — little  boys  of  ten  or  twelve — rather 
thoughtless,  being  mainly  bent  on  having  a  good 
time. 

They  had  a  wide  field  of  action :  they  ranged  from 
Holliday's  Hill  on  the  north  to  the  cave  on  the  south, 
and  over  the  fields  and  through  all  the  woods  be- 
tween. They  explored  both  banks  of  the  river,  the 
islands,  and  the  deep  wilderness  of  the  Illinois 
shore.  They  could  run  like  turkeys  and  swim  like 
ducks;  they  could  handle  a  boat  as  if  born  in  one. 
No  orchard  or  melon-patch  was  entirely  safe  from 
them.  No  dog  or  slave  patrol  was  so  watchful  that 
25 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

they  did  not  sooner  or  later  elude  it.  They  borrowed 
boats  with  or  without  the  owner's  consent — it  did 
not  matter. 

Most  of  their  expeditions  were  harmless  enough. 
They  often  cruised  up  to  Turtle  Island,  about  two 
miles  above  Hannibal,  and  spent  the  day  feasting. 
There  were  quantities  of  turtles  and  their  eggs 
there,  and  mussels,  and  plenty  of  fish.  Fishing  and 
swimming  were  their  chief  pastimes,  with  incidental 
raiding,  for  adventure.  Bear  Creek  was  their 
swimming-place  by  day,  and  the  river-front  at  night- 
fall— a  favorite  spot  being  where  the  railroad  bridge 
now  ends.  It  was  a  good  distance  across  to  the 
island  where,  in  the  book,  Tom  Sawyer  musters  his 
pirate  band,  and  where  later  Huck  found  Nigger 
Jim,  but  quite  often  in  the  evening  they  swam 
across  to  it,  and  when  they  had  frolicked  for  an  hour 
or  more  on  the  sand-bar  at  the  head  of  the  island, 
they  would  swim  back  in  the  dusk,  breasting  the 
strong,  steady  Mississippi  current  without  exhaus- 
tion or  dread.  They  could  swim  all  day,  those  little 
scamps,  and  seemed  to  have  no  fear.  Once,  during 
his  boyhood,  Sam  Clemens  swam  across  to  the  Il- 
linois side,  then  turned  and  swam  back  again  with- 
out landing,  a  distance  of  at  least  two  miles  as  he 
had  to  go.  He  was  seized  with  a  cramp  on  the  re- 
turn trip.  His  legs  became  useless  and  he  was 
obliged  to  make  the  remaining  distance  with  his 
arms. 

The  adventures  of  Sam  Clemens  and  his  comrades 
would  fill  several  books  of  the  size  of  Tom  Sawyer. 
Many  of  them  are,  of  course,  forgotten  now,  but 
26 


TOM    SAWYER   AND    HIS    BAND 

those  still  remembered  show  that  Mark  Twain  had 
plenty  of  real  material. 

It  was  not  easy  to  get  money  in  those  days,  and 
the  boys  were  often  without  it.  Once  "Huck" 
Blankenship  had  the  skin  of  a  'coon  he  had  capt- 
ured, and  offered  to  sell  it  to  raise  capital.  At 
Selms's  store,  on  Wild  Cat  Corner,  the  'coon-skin 
would  bring  ten  cents.  But  this  was  not  enough. 
The  boys  thought  of  a  plan  to  make  it  bring  more. 
Selms's  back  window  was  open,  and  the  place  where 
he  kept  his  pelts  was  pretty  handy.  Huck  went 
around  to  the  front  door  and  sold  the  skin  for  ten 
cents  to  Selms,  who  tossed  it  back  on  the  pile.  Then 
Huck  came  back  and,  after  waiting  a  reasonable  time, 
crawled  in  the  open  window,  got  the  'coon-skin,  and 
sold  it  to  Selms  again.  He  did  this  several  times 
that  afternoon,  and  the  capital  of  the  band  grew. 
But  at  last  John  Pierce,  Selms's  clerk,  said: 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Selms,  there's  something  wrong 
about  this.  That  boy  has  been  selling  us  'coon- 
skins  all  the  afternoon." 

Selms  went  back  to  his  pile  of  pelts.  There  were 
several  sheep-skins  and  some  cow-hides,  but  only  one 
'coon-skin — the  one  he  had  that  moment  bought. 

Selms  himself,  in  after  years,  used  to  tell  this 
story  as  a  great  joke. 

One  of  the  boys'  occasional  pastimes  was  to  climb 
Holliday's  Hill  and  roll  down  big  stones,  to  frighten 
the  people  who  were  driving  by.  Holliday's  Hill 
above  the  road  was  steep;  a  stone  once  started 
would  go  plunging  downward  and  bound  across  the 
road  with  the  deadly  momentum  of  a  shell.  The 
27 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

boys  would  get  a  stone  poised,  then  wait  until  they 
saw  a  team  approaching,  and,  calculating  the  dis- 
tance, would  give  the  boulder  a  start.  Dropping 
behind  the  bushes,  they  would  watch  the  sudden 
effect  upon  the  party  below  as  the  great  missile 
shot  across  the  road  a  few  yards  before  them.  This 
was  huge  sport,  but  they  carried  it  too  far.  For  at 
last  they  planned  a  grand  climax  that  would  surpass 
anything  before  attempted  in  the  stone-rolling  line. 

A  monstrous  boulder  was  lying  up  there  in  the 
right  position  to  go  down-hill,  once  started.  It 
would  be  a  glorious  thing  to  see  that  great  stone  go 
smashing  down  a  hundred  yards  or  so  in  front  of 
some  peaceful-minded  countryman  jogging  along  the 
road.  Quarrymen  had  been  getting  out  rock  not 
far  away  and  had  left  their  picks  and  shovels  handy. 
The  boys  borrowed  the  tools  and  went  to  work  to 
undermine  the  big  stone.  They  worked  at  it  several 
hours.  If  their  parents  had  asked  them  to  work 
like  that,  they  would  have  thought  they  were  being 
killed. 

Finally,  while  they  were  still  digging,  the  big 
stone  suddenly  got  loose  and  started  down.  They 
were  not  ready  for  it  at  all.  Nobody  was  coming 
but  an  old  colored  man  in  a  cart;  their  splendid 
stone  was  going  to  be  wasted. 

One  could  hardly  call  it  wasted,  however;  they 
had  planned  for  a  thrilling  result,  and  there  was 
certainly  thrill  enough  while  it  lasted.  In  the  first 
place  the  stone  nearly  caught  Will  Bowen  when  it 
started.  John  Briggs  had  that  moment  quit  digging 
and  handed  Will  the  pick.  Will  was  about  to  take 
28 


TOM    SAWYER   AND   HIS    BAND 

his  turn  when  Sam  Clemens  leaped  aside  with  a 
yell: 

"Look  out,  boys;  she's  coming!" 

She  came.  The  huge  boulder  kept  to  the  ground 
at  first,  then,  gathering  momentum,  it  went  bound- 
ing into  the  air.  About  half-way  down  the  hill  it 
struck  a  sapling  and  cut  it  clean  off.  This  turned 
its  course  a  little,  and  the  negro  in  the  cart,  hearing 
the  noise  and  seeing  the  great  mass  come  crashing 
in  his  direction,  made  a  wild  effort  to  whip  up  his 
mule. 

The  boys  watched  their  bomb  with  growing  inter- 
est. It  was  headed  straight  for  the  negro,  also  for  a 
cooper-shop  across  the  road.  It  made  longer  leaps 
with  every  bound,  and,  wherever  it  struck,  fragments 
and  dust  would  fly.  The  shop  happened  to  be 
empty,  but  the  rest  of  the  catastrophe  would  call  for 
close  investigation.  They  wanted  to  fly,  but  they 
could  not  move  until  they  saw  the  rock  land.  It 
was  making  mighty  leaps  now,  and  the  terrified 
negro  had  managed  to  get  exactly  in  its  path. 
The  boys  stood  holding  their  breath,  their  mouths 
open. 

Then,  suddenly,  they  could  hardly  believe  their 
eyes;  a  little  way  above  the  road  the  boulder  struck 
a  projection,  made  one  mighty  leap  into  the  air, 
sailed  clear  over  the  negro  and  his  mule,  and  landed 
in  the  soft  dirt  beyond  the  road,  only  a  fragment 
striking  the  shop,  damaging,  but  not  wrecking  it. 
Half  buried  in  the  ground,  the  great  stone  lay  there 
for  nearly  forty  years;  then  it  was  broken  up.  It 
was  the  last  rock  the  boys  ever  rolled  down.  Nearly 
29 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

sixty  years  later  John  Briggs  and  Mark  Twain 
walked  across  Holliday's  Hill  and  looked  down 
toward  the  river  road. 

Mark  Twain  said:  "It  was  a  mighty  good  thing, 
John,  that  stone  acted  the  way  it  did.  We  might 
have  had  to  pay  a  fancy  price  for  that  old  darky — 
I  can  see  him  yet."  J 

It  can  be  no  harm,  now,  to  confess  that  the  boy 
Sam  Clemens — a  pretty  small  boy,  a  good  deal  less 
than  twelve  at  the  time,  and  by  no  means  large  for 
his  years — was  the  leader  of  this  unhallowed  band. 
In  any  case,  truth  requires  this  admission.  If  the 
band  had  a  leader,  it  was  Sam,  just  as  it  was  Tom 
Sawyer  in  the  book.  They  were  always  ready  to 
listen  to  him — they  would  even  stop  fishing  to  do 
that — and  to  follow  his  plans.  They  looked  to  him 
for  ideas  and  directions,  and  he  gloried  in  being  a 
leader  and  showing  off,  just  as  Tom  did  in  the  book. 
It  seems  almost  a  pity  that  in  those  far-off  barefoot 
days  he  could  not  have  looked  down  the  years  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  splendid  destiny. 

But  of  literary  fame  he  could  never  have  dreamed. 
The  chief  ambition — the  "permanent  ambition" — 
of  every  Hannibal  boy  was  to  be  a  pilot.  The  pilot 
in  his  splendid  glass  perch  with  his  supreme  power 
and  princely  salary  was  to  them  the  noblest  of  all 
human  creatures.  An  elder  Bowen  boy  was  already 
a  pilot,  and  when  he  came  home,  as  he  did  now  and 
then,  his  person  seemed  almost  too  sacred  to  touch. 

1  John  Briggs  died  in  1907;  earlier  in  the  same  year  the  writer 
of  this  memoir  spent  an  afternoon  with  him  and  obtained  from  him 
most  of  the  material  for  this  chapter. 

30 


TOM    SAWYER   AND    HIS    BAND 

Next  to  being  a  pilot,  Sam  thought  he  would  like 
to  be  a  pirate  or  a  bandit  or  a  trapper-scout — 
something  gorgeous  and  awe-inspiring,  where  his 
word,  his  nod,  would  still  be  law.  The  river  kept 
his  river  ambition  always  fresh,  and  with  the  cave 
and  the  forest  round  about  helped  him  to  imagine 
those  other  things. 

The  cave  was  the  joy  of  his  heart.  It  was  a  real 
cave,  not  merely  a  hole,  but  a  marvel  of  deep  pas- 
sages and  vaulted  chambers  that  led  back  into  the 
bluffs  and  far  down  into  the  earth,  even  below  the 
river,  some  said.  Sam  Clemens  never  tired  of  the 
cave.  He  was  willing  any  time  to  quit  fishing  or 
swimming  or  melon-hunting  for  the  three-mile  walk, 
or  pull,  that  brought  them  to  its  mystic  door.  With 
its  long  corridors,  its  royal  chambers  hung  with 
stalactites,  its  remote  hiding-places,  it  was  exactly 
suitable,  Sam  thought,  to  be  the  lair  of  an  outlaw, 
and  in  it  he  imagined  and  carried  out  adventures 
which  his  faithful  followers  may  not  always  have 
understood,  though  enjoying  them  none  the  less  for 
that  reason. 

In  Tom  Sawyer,  Indian  Joe  dies  in  the  cave.  He 
did  not  die  there  in  real  life,  but  was  lost  there  once 
and  was  very  weak  when  they  found  him.  He  was 
not  as  bad  as  painted  in  the  book,  though  he  was 
dissolute  and  accounted  dangerous;  and  when  one 
night  he  died  in  reality,  there  came  a  thunder-storm 
so  terrific  that  Sam  Clemens  at  home,  in  bed,  was 
certain  that  Satan  had  come  in  person  for  the  half- 
breed's  soul.  He  covered  his  head  and  said  his 
prayers  with  fearful  anxiety  lest  the  evil  one  might 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

decide  to  save  another  trip  by  taking  him  along 
then. 

The  treasure-digging  adventure  in  the  book  had 
this  foundation  in  fact:  It  was  said  that  two  French 
trappers  had  once  buried  a  chest  of  gold  about  two 
miles  above  Hannibal,  and  that  it  was  still  there. 
Tom  Blankenship  (Huck)  one  morning  said  he  had 
dreamed  just  where  the  treasure  was,  and  that  if 
the  boys— Sam  Clemens  and  John  Briggs — would  go 
with  him  and  help  dig,  he  would  divide.  The  boys 
had  great  faith  in  dreams,  especially  in  Huck's 
dreams.  They  followed  him  to  a  place  with  some 
shovels  and  picks,  and  he  showed  them  just  where 
to  dig.  Then  he  sat  down  under  the  shade  of  a 
pawpaw-bush  and  gave  orders. 

They  dug  nearly  all  day.  Huck  didn't  dig  any 
himself,  because  he  had  done  the  dreaming,  which 
was  his  share.  They  didn't  find  the  treasure  that 
day,  and  next  morning  they  took  two  long  iron  rods 
to  push  and  drive  into  the  ground  until  they  should 
strike  something.  They  struck  a  number  of  things, 
but  when  they  dug  down  it  was  never  the  money 
they  found.  That  night  the  boys  said  they  wouldn't 
dig  any  more. 

But  Huck  had  another  dream.  He  dreamed  the 
gold  was  exactly  under  the  little  pawpaw-tree.  This 
sounded  so  circumstantial  that  they  went  back  and 
dug  another  day.  It  was  hot  weather,  too — August 
— and  that  night  they  were  nearly  dead.  Even  Huck 
gave  it  up  then.  He  said  there  was  something  wrong 
about  the  way  they  dug. 

This  differs  a  good  deal  from  the  treasure  incident 
32 


HOME   OF   HUCK   FINN   ABOUT    1840-50 


THE   ENTRANCE   TO    "TOM   SAWYER'S "   CAVE 


TOM   SAWYER   AND   HIS    BAND 

in  the  book,  but  it  shows  us  what  respect  the  boys 
had  for  the  gifts  of  the  ragamuffin  original  of  Huck 
Finn.  Tom  Blankenship's  brother  Ben  was  also 
used,  and  very  importantly,  in  the  creation  of  our 
beloved  Huck.  Ben  was  considerably  older,  but 
certainly  no  more  reputable,  than  Tom.  He  tor- 
mented the  smaller  boys,  and  they  had  little  love  for 
him.  Yet  somewhere  in  Ben  Blankenship's  nature 
there  was  a  fine,  generous  strain  of  humanity  that 
provided  Mark  Twain  with  that  immortal  episode — 
the  sheltering  of  Nigger  Jim.  This  is  the  real  story : 

A  slave  ran  off  from  Monroe  County,  Missouri,  and 
got  across  the  river  into  Illinois.  Ben  used  to  fish 
and  hunt  over  there  in  the  swamps,  and  one  day 
found  him.  It  was  considered  a  most  worthy  act  in 
those  days  to  return  a  runaway  slave;  in  fact,  it  was 
a  crime  not  to  do  it.  Besides,  there  was  for  this  one 
a  reward  of  fifty  dollars — a  fortune  to  ragged,  out- 
cast Ben  Blankenship.  That  money,  and  the  honor 
he  could  acquire,  must  have  been  tempting  to  the 
waif,  but  it  did  not  outweigh  his  human  sympathy. 
Instead  of  giving  him  up  and  claiming  the  reward, 
Ben  kept  the  runaway  over  there  in  the  marshes  all 
summer.  The  negro  fished,  and  Ben  carried  him 
scraps  of  other  food.  Then,  by  and  by,  the  facts 
leaked  out.  Some  wood-choppers  went  on  a  hunt 
for  the  fugitive  and  chased  him  to  what  was  called 
Bird  Slough.  There,  trying  to  cross  a  drift,  he 
was  drowned. 

Huck's  struggle  in  the  book  is  between  conscience 
and  the  law,  on  one  side,  and  deep  human  sympathy 
on  the  other.  Ben  Blankenship's  struggle,  supposing 
33 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

there  was  one,  would  be  between  sympathy  and  the 
offered  reward.  Neither  conscience  nor  law  would 
trouble  him.  It  was  his  native  humanity  that  made 
him  shelter  the  runaway,  and  it  must  have  been 
strong  and  genuine  to  make  him  resist  the  lure  of 
the  fifty-dollar  prize. 

There  was  another  chapter  to  this  incident.  A  few 
days  after  the  drowning  of  the  runaway,  Sam  Clem- 
ens and  his  band  made  their  way  to  the  place  and 
were  pushing  the  drift  about,  when,  all  at  once,  the 
negro  shot  up  out  of  the  water,  straight  and  terrible, 
a  full  half-length  in  the  air.  He  had  gone  down 
foremost  and  had  been  caught  in  the  drift.  The 
boys  did  not  stop  to  investigate,  but  flew  in  terror 
to  report  their  tale. 

Those  early  days  seem  to  have  been  full  of  grue- 
some things.  In  The  Innocents  Abroad,  the  author 
tells  how  he  once  spent  a  night  in  his  father's  office 
and  discovered  there  a  murdered  man.  This  was  a 
true  incident.  The  man  had  been  stabbed  that 
afternoon  and  carried  into  the  house  to  die.  Sam 
and  John  Briggs  had  been  playing  truant  all  day 
and  knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  Sam  thought  the 
office  safer  than  his  home,  where  his  mother  was 
probably  sitting  up  for  him.  He  climbed  in  by  a 
window  and  lay  down  on  the  lounge,  but  did  not 
sleep.  Presently  he  noticed  what  appeared  to  be  an 
unusual  shape  on  the  floor.  He  tried  to  turn  his 
face  to  the  wall  and  forget  it,  but  that  would  not  do. 
In  agony  he  watched  the  thing  until  at  last  a  square 
of  moonlight  gradually  revealed  a  sight  that  he  never 
forgot.  In  the  book  he  says: 
34 


TOM    SAWYER   AND    HIS    BAND 

I  went  away  from  there.  I  do  not  say  that  I  went  in 
any  sort  of  hurry,  but  I  simply  went — that  is  sufficient. 
I  went  out  of  the  window,  and  I  carried  the  sash  along 
with  me.  I  did  not  need  the  sash,  but  it  was  handier  to 
take  it  than  to  leave  it,  and  so  I  took  it.  I  was  not  scared, 
but  I  was  considerable  agitated. 

Sam  was  not  yet  twelve,  for  his  father  was  no  longer 
living  when  the  boy  had  reached  that  age.  And  how 
many  things  had  crowded  themselves  into  his  few 
brief  years!  We  must  be  content  here  with  only  a 
few  of  them.  Our  chapter  is  already  too  long. 

Ministers  and  deacons  did  not  prophesy  well  for 
Sam  Clemens  and  his  mad  companions.  They  spoke 
feelingly  of  state  prison  and  the  gallows.  But  the 
boys  were  a  disappointing  lot.  Will  Bowen  became 
a  fine  river-pilot.  Will  Pitts  was  in  due  time  a 
leading  merchant  and  bank  president.  John  Briggs 
grew  into  a  well-to-do  and  highly  respected  farmer. 
Huck  Finn — which  is  to  say,  Tom  Blankenship — • 
died  an  honored  citizen  and  justice  of  the  peace  in  a 
Western  town.  As  for  Sam  Clemens,  we  shall  see 
what  he  became  as  the  chapters  pass. 


VI 

CLOSING   SCHOOL-DAYS 

SAM  was  at  Mr.  Cross's  school  on  the  Square  in 
due  time,  and  among  the  pupils  were  companions 
that  appealed  to  his  gentler  side.  There  were  the 
RoBards  boys — George,  the  best  Latin  scholar,  and 
John,  who  always  won  the  good-conduct  medal,  and 
would  one  day  make  all  the  other  boys  envious  by 
riding  away  with  his  father  to  California,  his  curls 
of  gold  blowing  in  the  wind. 

There  was  Buck  Brown,  a  rival  speller,  and  John 
Garth,  who  would  marry  little  Helen  Kercheval,  and 
Jimmy  MacDaniel,  whom  it  was  well  to  know  be- 
cause his  father  kept  a  pastry-shop  and  he  used  to 
bring  cakes  and  candy  to  school. 

There  were  also  a  number  of  girls.  Bettie  Orms- 
ley,  Artemisia  Briggs,  and  Jennie  Brady  were 
among  the  girls  he  remembered  in  later  years,  and 
Mary  Miller,  who  was  nearly  double  his  age  and 
broke  his  heart  by  getting  married  one  day,  a  thing 
he  had  not  expected  at  all. 

Yet  through  it  all  he  appears,  like  Tom  Sawyer, 
to  have  had  one  faithful  sweetheart.  In  the  book  it 
is  Becky  Thatcher — in  real  life  she  was  Laura 
36 


CLOSING   SCHOOL-DAYS 

Hawkins.  The  Clemens  and  Hawkins  families  lived 
opposite,  and  the  children  were  early  acquainted. 
The  "Black  Avenger  of  the  Spanish  Main  "  was  very 
gentle  when  he  was  playing  at  house-building  with 
little  Laura,  and  once,  when  he  dropped  a  brick  on 
her  finger,  he  cried  the  louder  and  longer  of  the  two. 

For  he  was  a  tender-hearted  boy.  He  would  never 
abuse  an  animal,  except  when  his  tendency  to  mis- 
chief ran  away  with  him,  as  in  the  "pain-killer" 
incident.  He  had  a  real  passion  for  cats.  Each  sum- 
mer he  carried  his  cat  to  the  farm  in  a  basket,  and  it 
always  had  a  place  by  him  at  the  table.  He  loved 
flowers — not  as  a  boy  botanist  or  gardener,  but  as 
a  companion  who  understood  their  thoughts.  He 
pitied  dead  leaves  and  dry  weeds  because  their 
lives  were  ended  and  they  would  never  know  summer 
again  or  grow  glad  with  another  spring.  Even  in 
that  early  time  he  had  that  deeper  sympathy  which 
one  day  would  offer  comfort  to  humanity  and  make 
every  man  his  friend. 

But  we  are  drifting  away  from  Sam  Clemens's 
school-days.  They  will  not  trouble  us  much  longer 
now.  More  than  anything  in  the  world  Sam  de- 
tested school,  and  he  made  any  excuse  to  get  out  of 
going.  It  is  hard  to  say  just  why,  unless  it  was  the 
restraint  and  the  long  hours  of  confinement. 

The  Square  in  Hannibal,  where  stood  the  school  of 
Mr.  Cross,  was  a  grove  in  those  days,  with  plum- 
trees  and  hazel -bushes  and  grape-vines.  When 
spring  came,  the  children  gathered  flowers  at  recess, 
climbed  trees,  and  swung  in  the  vines.  It  was  a 
happy  place  enough,  only — it  was  school.  To  Sam 
4  37 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Clemens,  the  spelling-bee  every  Friday  afternoon 
was  the  one  thing  that  made  it  worth  while.  Sam 
was  a  leader  at  spelling — it  was  one  of  his  gifts — he 
could  earn  compliments  even  from  Mr.  Cross,  whose 
name,  it  would  seem,  was  regarded  as  descriptive. 
Once  in  a  moment  of  inspiration  Sam  wrote  on  his 
slate: 

Cross  by  name  and  Cross  by  nature, 
Cross  jumped  over  an  Irish  potato. 

John  Briggs  thought  this  a  great  effort,  and  urged 
the  author  to  write  it  on  the  blackboard  at  noon. 
Sam  hesitated. 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  said  John,  "I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to 
do  it." 

"I  dare  you  to  do  it,"  said  Sam. 

This  was  enough.  While  Mr.  Cross  was  at  dinner 
John  wrote  in  a  large  hand  the  fine  couplet.  The 
teacher  returned  and  called  the  school  to  order.  He 
looked  at  the  blackboard,  then,  searchingly,  at  John 
Briggs.  The  handwriting  was  familiar. 

"Did  you  do  that?"  he  asked,  ominously. 

It  was  a  time  for  truth. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  John. 

"Come  here!"  And  John  came  and  paid  hand- 
somely for  his  publishing  venture.  Sam  Clemens  ex- 
pected that  the  author  would  be  called  for  next ;  but 
perhaps  Mr.  Cross  had  exhausted  himself  on  John. 
Sam  did  not  often  escape.  His  back  kept  fairly 
warm  from  one  "flailing"  to  the  next. 

Yet  he  usually  wore  one  of  the  two  medals  offered 
in  that  school — the  medal  for  spelling.  Once  he  lost 
38 


CLOSING   SCHOOL-DAYS 

it  by  leaving  the  first  "r"  out  of  February.  Laura 
Hawkins  was  on  the  floor  against  him,  and  he  was 
a  gallant  boy.  If  it  had  only  been  Buck  Brown  he 
would  have  spelled  that  and  all  the  other  months 
backward,  to  show  off.  There  were  moments  of 
triumph  that  almost  made  school  worth  while;  the 
rest  of  the  time  it  was  prison  and|servitude. 

But  then  one  day  came  freedom.  Judge  Clemens, 
who,  in  spite  of  misfortune,  had  never  lost  faith  in 
humanity,  indorsed  a  large  note  for  a  neighbor,  and 
was  obliged  to  pay  it.  Once  more  all  his  property 
was  taken  away.  Only  a  few  scanty  furnishings 
were  rescued  from  the  wreck.  A  St.  Louis  cousin 
saved  the  home,  but  the  Clemens  family  could  not 
afford  to  live  in  it.  They  moved  across  the  street 
and  joined  housekeeping  with  another  family. 

Judge  Clemens  had  one  hope  left.  He  was  a  can- 
didate for  the  clerkship  of  the  surrogate  court,  a 
good  office,  and  believed  his  election  sure.  His 
business  misfortunes  had  aroused  wide  sympathy. 
He  took  no  chances,  however,  and  made  a  house-to- 
house  canvas  of  the  district,  regardless  of  the 
weather,  probably  undermining  his  health.  He  was 
elected  by  a  large  majority,  and  rejoiced  that  his 
worries  were  now  at  an  end.  They  were,  indeed, 
over.  At  the  end  of  February  he  rode  to  the  county- 
seat  to  take  the  oath  of  office.  He  returned  through 
a  drenching  storm  and  reached  home  nearly  frozen. 
Pneumonia  set  in,  and  a  few  days  later  he  was 
dying.  His  one  comfort  now  was  the  Tennessee 
land.  He  said  it  would  make  them  all  rich  and 
happy.  Once  he  whispered : 
39 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

"Cling  to  the  land;  cling  to  the  land  and  wait. 
Let  nothing  beguile  it  away  from  you." 

He  was  a  man  who  had  rarely  displayed  affection  for 
his  children.  But  presently  he  beckoned  to  Pamela, 
now  a  lovely  girl  of  nineteen,  and,  putting  his  arm 
around  her  neck,  kissed  her  for  the  first  time  in  years. 

"Let  me  die,"  he  said. 

He  did  not  speak  again.  A  little  more,  and  his 
worries  had  indeed  ended.  The  hard  struggle  of  an 
upright,  impractical  man  had  come  to  a  close.  This 
was  in  March,  1847.  John  Clemens  had  lived  less 
than  forty-nine  years. 

The  children  were  dazed.  They  had  loved  their 
father  and  honored  his  nobility  of  purpose.  The 
boy  Sam  was  overcome  with  remorse.  He  recalled 
his  wildness  and  disobedience — a  thousand  things 
trifling  enough  at  the  time,  but  heartbreaking  now. 
Boy  and  man,  Samuel  Clemens  was  never  spared  by 
remorse.  Leading  him  into  the  room  where  his 
father  lay,  his  mother  said  some  comforting  words 
and  asked  him  to  make  her  a  promise. 

He  flung  himself  into  her  arms,  sobbing:  "I  will 
promise  anything,  if  you  won't  make  me  go  to 
school !  Anything !' ' 

After  a  moment  his  mother  said:  "No,  Sammy, 
you  need  not  go  to  school  any  more.  Only  promise 
me  to  be  a  better  boy.  Promise  not  to  break  my 
heart!" 

He  gave  his  promise  to  be  faithful  and  industrious 

and  upright,  like  his  father.    Such  a  promise  was  a 

serious  matter,  and  Sam  Clemens,  underneath  all, 

was  a  serious  lad.     He  would  not  be  twelve  until 

40 


CLOSING   SCHOOL-DAYS 

November,  but  his  mother  felt  that  he  would  keep 
his  word. 

Orion  Clemens  returned  to  St.  Louis,  where  he  was 
receiving  a  salary  of  ten  dollars  a  week — high  wages 
for  those  days — out  of  which  he  could  send  three 
dollars  weekly  to  the  family.  Pamela,  who  played 
the  guitar  and  piano  very  well,  gave  music  lessons, 
and  so  helped  the  family  fund.  Pamela  Clemens, 
the  original  of  Cousin  Mary,  in  Tom  Sawyer,  was  a 
sweet  and  noble  girl.  Henry  was  too  young  to  work, 
but  Sam  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer  named  Ament, 
who  had  recently  moved  to  Hannibal  and  bought  a 
weekly  paper,  The  Courier.  Sam  agreed  with  his 
mother  that  the  printing  trade  offered  a  chance  for 
further  education  without  attending  school,  and  then, 
some  day,  there  might  be  wages. 


VII 

THE    APPRENTICE 

THE  terms  of  Samuel  Clemens's  apprenticeship 
were  the  usual  thing  for  that  day:  board  and 
clothes — "more  board  than  clothes,  and  not  much 
of  either,"  Mark  Twain  used  to  say. 

' '  I  was  supposed  to  get  two  suits  of  clothes  a  year, 
but  I  didn't  get  them.  I  got  one  suit  and  took  the 
rest  out  in  Ament's  old  garments,  which  didn't  fit 
me  in  any  noticeable  way.  I  was  only  about  half 
as  big  as  he  was,  and  when  I  had  on  one  of  his  shirts 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  on  a  circus-tent.  I  had  to  turn  the 
trousers  up  to  my  ears  to  make  them  short  enough." 

Another  apprentice,  a  huge  creature,  named  Wales 
McCormick,  was  so  large  that  Ament's  clothes  were 
much  too  small  for  him.  The  two  apprentices,  fitted 
out  with  their  employer's  cast-off  garments,  were 
amusing  enough,  no  doubt.  Sam  and  Wales  ate  in 
the  kitchen  at  first,  but  later  at  the  family  table 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ament  and  Pet  McMurry,  a 
journeyman  printer.  McMurry  was  a  happy  soul, 
as  one  could  almost  guess  from  his  name.  He  had 
traveled  far  and  learned  much.  What  the  two  ap- 
prentices did  not  already  know,  Pet  McMurry  could 
42 


THE   APPRENTICE 

teach  them.  Sam  Clemens  had  promised  to  be  a 
good  boy,  and  he  was  so,  by  the  standards  of  boy- 
hood. He  was  industrious,  regular  at  his  work, 
quick  to  learn,  kind,  and  truthful.  Angels  could 
hardly  be  more  than  that  in  a  printing-office.  But 
when  food  was  scarce,  even  an  angel — a  young 
printer-angel — could  hardly  resist  slipping  down  the 
cellar  stairs  at  night,  for  raw  potatoes,  onions,  and 
apples,  which  they  cooked  in  the  office,  where  the 
boys  slept  on  a  pallet  on  the  floor.  Wales  had  a  won- 
derful way  of  cooking  a  potato  which  his  fellow- 
apprentice  never  forgot. 

How  one  wishes  for  a  photograph  of  Sam  Clemens 
at  that  period!  But  in  those  days  there  were  only 
daguerreotypes,  and  they  were  expensive  things. 
There  is  a  letter,  though,  written  long  afterward,  by 
Pet  McMurry  to  Mark  Twain,  which  contains  this 
paragraph : 

If  your  memory  extends  so  far  back,  you  will  recall  a 
little  sandy-haired  boy  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago,  in  the  printing-office  at  Hannibal,  over  the  Brit- 
tingham  drug-store,  mounted  upon  a  little  box  at  the 
case,  who  used  to  love  to  sing  so  well  the  expression  of  the 
poor  drunken  man  who  was  supposed  to  have  fallen  by 
the  wayside,  "If  ever  I  get  up  again,  I'll  stay  up — if 
I  kin." 

And  with  this  portrait  we  must  be  content — we 
cannot  doubt  its  truth. 

Sam  was  soon  office  favorite  and  in  time  became 
chief  stand-by.  When  he  had  been  at  work  a  year, 
he  could  set  type  accurately,  run  the  job  press  to 
43 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

the  tune  of  "Annie  Laurie,"  and  he  had  charge  of 
the  circulation.  That  is  to  say,  he  carried  the  pa- 
pers— a  mission  of  real  importance,  for  a  long, 
sagging  span  of  telegraph-wire  had  reached  across 
the  river  to  Hannibal,  and  Mexican- war  news  de- 
livered hot  from  the  front  gave  the  messenger  a  fine 
prestige. 

He  even  did  editing,  of  a  kind.  That  is  to  say, 
when  Ament  was  not  in  the  office  and  copy  was 
needed,  Sam  hunted  him  up,  explained  the  situa- 
tion, and  saw  that  the  necessary  matter  was  pro- 
duced. He  was  not  ambitious  to  write — not  then. 
He  wanted  to  be  a  journeyman  printer,  like  Pet,  and 
travel  and  see  the  world.  Sometimes  he  thought  he 
would  like  to  be  a  clown,  or  "end  man"  in  a  minstrel 
troupe.  Once  for  a  week  he  served  as  subject  for  a 
traveling  hypnotist — and  was  dazzled  by  his  success. 

But  he  stuck  to  printing,  and  rapidly  became  a 
neat,  capable  workman.  Ament  gave  him  a  daily 
task,  after  which  he  was  free.  By  three  in  the  after- 
noon he  was  likely  to  finish  his  stint.  Then  he  was 
off  for  the  river  or  the  cave,  joining  his  old  comrades. 
Or  perhaps  he  would  go  with  Laura  Hawkins  to 
gather  wild  columbine  on  the  high  cliff  above  the 
river,  known  as  Lover's  Leap.  When  winter  came 
these  two  sometimes  went  to  Bear  Creek,  skating; 
or  together  they  attended  parties,  where  the  old- 
fashioned  games  " Ring-around-Rosy "  and  "Dusty 
Miller"  were  the  chief  amusements. 

In  The  Gilded  Age,  Laura  Hawkins  at  twelve  is 
pictured  "wilfll  her  dainty  hands  propped  into  the 
ribbon-bordered  pockets  of  her  apron  ...  a  vision 

44 


THE   APPRENTICE 

to  warm  the  coldest  heart  and  bless  and  cheer  the 
saddest."  That  was  the  real  Laura,  though  her 
story  in  that  book  in  no  way  resembles  the  reality. 

It  was  just  at  this  time  that  an  incident  occurred 
which  may  be  looked  back  upon  now  as  a  turning- 
point  in  Samuel  Clemens' s  life.  Coming  home  from 
the  office  one  afternoon,  he  noticed  a  square  of  paper 
being  swept  along  by  the  wind.  He  saw  that  it  was 
printed — was  interested  professionally  in  seeing  what 
it  was  like.  He  chased  the  flying  scrap  and  overtook 
it.  It  was  a  leaf  from  some  old  history  of  Joan  of 
Arc,  and  pictured  the  hard  lot  of  the  "maid"  in  the 
tower  at  Rouen,  reviled  and  mistreated  by  her  ruf- 
fian captors.  There  were  some  paragraphs  of  de- 
scription, but  the  rest  was  pitiful  dialogue. 

Sam  had  never  heard  of  Joan  before — he  knew 
nothing  of  history.  He  was  no  reader.  Orion  was 
fond  of  books,  and  Pamela;  even  little  Henry  had 
read  more  than  Sam.  But  now,  as  he  read,  there 
awoke  in  him  a  deep  feeling  of  pity  and  indignation, 
and  with  it  a  longing  to  know  more  of  the  tragic 
story.  It  was  an  interest  that  would  last  his  life 
through,  and  in  the  course  of  time  find  expression  in 
one  of  the  rarest  books  ever  written. 

The  first  result  was  that  Sam  began  to  read.  He 
hunted  up  everything  he  could  find  on  the  subject  of 
Joan,  and  from  that  went  into  French  history  in 
general — indeed,  into  history  of  every  kind.  Samuel 
Clemens  had  suddenly  become  a  reader — almost  a 
student.  He  even  began  the  study  of  languages, 
German  and  Latin,  but  was  not  able  to  go  on  for 
lack  of  time  and  teachers. 
45 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

He  became  a  hater  of  tyranny,  a  champion  of  the 
weak.  Watching  a  game  of  marbles  or  tops,  he 
would  remark  to  some  offender,  in  his  slow,  drawling 
way,  "You  mustn't  cheat  that  boy." 

And  the  cheating  stopped,  or  trouble  followed. 


VIII 

ORION'S  PAPER 

A  HANNIBAL  paper,  the  Journal,  was  for  sale 
/*,  under  a  mortgage  of  five  hundred  dollars,  and 
Orion  Clemens,  returning  from  St.  Louis,  borrowed 
the  money  and  bought  it.  Sam's  two  years'  appren- 
ticeship with  Ament  had  been  completed,  and  Orion 
felt  that  together  they  could  carry  on  the  paper  and 
win  success.  Henry  Clemens,  now  eleven,  was  also 
taken  out  of  school  to  learn  type-setting. 

Orion  was  a  better  printer  than  proprietor.  Like 
so  many  of  his  family,  he  was  a  visionary,  gentle  and 
credulous,  ready  to  follow  any  new  idea.  Much 
advice  was  offered  him,  and  he  tried  to  follow  it  all. 

He  began  with  great  hopes  and  energy.  He  worked 
like  a  slave  and  did  not  spare  the  others.  The 
paper  was  their  hope  of  success.  Sam,  especially, 
was  driven.  There  were  no  more  free  afternoons. 
In  some  chapters  written  by  Orion  Clemens  in  later 
life,  he  said: 

I  was  tyrannical  and  unjust  to  Sam.  He  was  swift 
and  clean  as  a  good  journeyman.  I  gave  him  "takes," 
and,  if  he  got  through  well,  I  begrudged  him  the  time  and 
made  him  work  more. 

47 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Orion  did  not  mean  to  be  unjust.  The  struggle 
against  opposition  and  debt  was  bitter.  He  could 
not  be  considerate. 

The  paper  for  a  time  seemed  on  the  road  to  suc- 
cess, but  Orion  worked  too  hard  and  tried  too  many 
schemes.  His  enthusiasm  waned  and  most  of  his 
schemes  turned  out  poorly.  By  the  end  of  the  year 
the  Journal  was  on  the  down  grade. 

In  time  when  the  need  of  money  became  great, 
Orion  made  a  trip  to  Tennessee  to  try  to  raise  some- 
thing on  the  land  which  they  still  held  there.  He 
left  Sam  in  charge  of  the  paper,  and,  though  its  pro- 
prietor returned  empty-handed,  his  journey  was 
worth  while,  for  it  was  during  his  absence  that 
Samuel  Clemens  began  the  career  that  would  one 
day  make  him  Mark  Twain. 

Sam  had  concluded  to  edit  the  paper  in  a  way 
that  would  liven  up  the  circulation.  He  had  never 
written  anything  for  print,  but  he  believed  he  knew 
what  the  subscribers  wanted.  The  editor  of  a  rival 
paper  had  been  crossed  in  love,  and  was  said  to  have 
tried  to  drown  himself.  Sam  wrote  an  article  telling 
all  the  history  of  the  affair,  giving  names  and  de- 
tails. Then  on  the  back  of  two  big  wooden  letters, 
used  for  bill-printing,  he  engraved  illustrations  of 
the  victim  wading  out  into  the  river,  testing  the 
depth  of  the  water  with  a  stick. 

The  paper  came  out,  and  the  demand  for  it  kept 
the  Washington  hand-press  busy.  The  injured  edi- 
tor sent  word  that  he  was  coming  over  to  thrash  the 
whole  Journal  staff,  but  he  left  town,  instead,  for 
the  laugh  was  too  general. 
48 


ORION'S    PAPER 

Sam  also  wrote  a  poem  which  startled  orthodox 
readers.  Then  Orion  returned  and  reduced  him  to 
the  ranks.  In  later  years  Orion  saw  his  mistake. 

"I  could  have  distanced  all  competitors,  even 
then,"  he  wrote,  "if  I  had  recognized  Sam's  ability 
and  let  him  go  ahead,  merely  keeping  him  from 
offending  worthy  persons." 

Sam  was  not  discouraged.  He  liked  the  taste  of 
print.  He  sent  two  anecdotes  to  the  Philadelphia 
Saturday  Evening  Post.  Both  were  accepted — with- 
out payment,  of  course,  in  those  days — and  when 
they  appeared  he  walked  on  air.  This  was  in  1851. 
Nearly  sixty  years  later  he  said : 

"Seeing  them  in  print  was  a  joy  which  rather  ex- 
ceeded anything  in  that  line  I  have  ever  experienced 
since." 

However,  he  wrote  nothing  further  for  the  Post. 
Orion  printed  two  of  his  sketches  in  the  Journal, 
which  was  the  extent  of  his  efforts  at  this  time. 
None  of  this  early  work  has  been  preserved.  Files 
of  the  Post  exist,  but  the  sketches  were  unsigned  and 
could  hardly  be  identified. 

The  Hannibal  paper  dragged  along  from  year  to 
year.  Orion  could  pay  nothing  on  the  mortgage — 
financial  matters  becoming  always  worse.  He  could 
barely  supply  the  plainest  food  and  clothing  for  the 
family.  Sam  and  Henry  got  no  wages,  of  course. 
Then  real  disaster  came.  A  cow  got  into  the  office 
one  night,  upset  a  type-case,  and  ate  up  two  com- 
position rollers.  Somewhat  later  a  fire  broke  out  and 
did  considerable  damage.  There  was  partial  insur- 
ance, with  which  Orion  replaced  a  few  necessary 
49 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

articles;  then,  to  save  rent,  he  moved  the  office  into 
the  front  room  of  the  home  on  Hill  Street,  where 
they  were  living  again  at  this  time. 

Samuel  Clemens,  however,  now  in  his  eighteenth 
year,  felt  that  he  was  no  longer  needed  in  Hannibal. 
He  was  a  capable  workman,  with  little  to  do  and  no 
reward.  Orion,  made  irritable  by  his  misfortunes, 
was  not  always  kind.  Pamela,  who,  meantime,  had 
married  well,  was  settled  in  St.  Louis.  Sam  told  his 
mother  that  he  would  visit  Pamela  and  look  about 
the  city.  There  would  be  work  in  St.  Louis  at  good 
wages. 

He  was  going  farther  than  St.  Louis,  but  he  dared 
not  tell  her.  Jane  Clemens,  consenting,  sighed  as 
she  put  together  his  scanty  belongings.  Sam  was 
going  away.  He  had  been  a  good  boy  of  late  years, 
but  her  faith  in  his  resisting  powers  was  not  strong. 
Presently  she  held  up  a  little  Testament. 

"I  want  you  to  take  hold  of  the  other  end  of  this, 
Sam,"  she  said,  "and  make  me  a  promise." 

The  slim,  wiry  woman  of  forty-nine,  gray-eyed, 
tender,  and  resolute,  faced  the  fair-cheeked  youth  of 
seventeen,  his  eyes  as  piercing  and  unwavering  as 
her  own.  How  much  alike  they  were ! 

"I  want  you,"  Jane  Clemens  said,  "to  repeat  after 
me,  Sam,  these  words:  I  do  solemnly  swear  that  I 
will  not  throw  a  card  or  drink  a  drop  of  liquor  while 
I  am  gone." 

He  repeated  the  vow  after  her,  and  she  kissed 
him. 

"Remember  that,  Sam,  and  write  to  us,"  she 
said. 


ORION'S    PAPER 

"And  so,"  writes  Orion,  "he  went  wandering  in 
search  of  that  comfort  and  advancement,  and  those 
rewards  of  industry,  which  he  had  failed  to  find 
where  I  was — gloomy,  taciturn,  and  selfish.  I  not 
only  missed  his  labor;  we  all  missed  his  abounding 
activity  and  merriment." 


IX 

THE    OPEN   ROAD 

SAMUEL  CLEMENS  went  to  visit  his  sister 
Pamela  in  St.  Louis  and  was  presently  at  work, 
setting  type  on  the  Evening  News.  He  had  no  in- 
tention, however,  of  staying  there.  His  purpose  was 
to  earn  money  enough  to  take  him  to  New  York 
City.  The  railroad  had  by  this  time  reached  St. 
Louis,  and  he  meant  to  have  the  grand  experience 
of  a  long  journey  "on  the  cars."  Also,  there  was 
a  Crystal  Palace  in  New  York,  where  a  world's 
exposition  was  going  on. 

Trains  were  slow  in  1853,  and  it  required  several 
days  and  nights  to  go  from  St.  Louis  to  New  York 
City,  but  to  Sam  Clemens  it  was  a  wonderful  jour- 
ney. All  day  he  sat  looking  out  of  the  window, 
eating  when  he  chose  from  the  food  he  carried,  curl- 
ing up  in  his  seat  at  night  to  sleep.  He  arrived  at 
last  with  a  few  dollars  in  his  pocket  and  a  ten-dollar 
bill  sewed  into  the  lining  of  his  coat. 

New  York  was  rather  larger  than  he  expected. 
All  of  the  lower  end  of  Manhattan  Island  was  cov- 
ered by  it.  The  Crystal  Palace — some  distance 
out — stood  at  Forty-second  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue 
52 


THE   OPEN    ROAD 

— the  present  site  of  Bryant  Park.  All  the  world's 
newest  wonders  were  to  be  seen  there — a  dazzling 
exhibition.  A  fragment  of  the  letter  which  Sam 
Clemens  wrote  to  his  sister  Pamela — the  earliest 
piece  of  Mark  Twain's  writing  that  has  been  pre- 
served— expresses  his  appreciation  of  the  big  fair: 

From  the  gallery  (second  floor)  you  have  a  glorious 
sight — the  flags  of  the  different  countries  represented,  the 
lofty  dome,  glittering  jewelry,  gaudy  tapestry,  etc.,  with 
the  busy  crowd  passing  to  and  fro — 'tis  a  perfect  fairy 
palace — beautiful  beyond  description. 

The  machinery  department  is  on  the  main  floor,  but 
I  cannot  enumerate  any  of  it  on  account  of  the  lateness 
of  the  hour  (past  one  o'clock).  It  would  take  more  than 
a  week  to  examine  everything  on  exhibition,  and  I  was 
only  in  a  little  over  two  hours  to-night.  I  only  glanced  at 
about  one-third  of  the  articles;  and,  having  a  poor  mem- 
ory, I  have  enumerated  scarcely  any  of  even  the  principal 
objects.  The  visitors  to  the  Palace  average  6,000  daily 
— double  the  population  of  Hannibal.  The  price  of  ad- 
mission being  fifty  cents,  they  take  in  about  $3,000. 

The  Latting  Observatory  (height  about  280  feet)  is 
near  the  Palace.  From  it  you  can  obtain  a  grand  view 
of  the  city  and  the  country  around.  The  Croton  Aque- 
duct, to  supply  the  city  with  water,  is  the  greatest  wonder 
yet.  Immense  pipes  are  laid  across  the  bed  of  the  Harlem 
River,  and  pass  through  the  country  to  Westchester 
County,  where  a  whole  river  is  turned  from  its  course 
and  brought  to  New  York.  From  the  reservoir  in  the 
city  to  Westchester  County  reservoir  the  distance  is 
thirty-eight  miles,  and,  if  necessary,  they  could  easily 
supply  every  family  in  New  York  with  one  hundred  barrels 
of  water  a  day! 

I  am  very  sorry  to  learn  that  Henry  has  been  sick.  He 
5  53 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

ought  to  go  to  the  country  and  take  exercise,  for  he  is 
not  half  so  healthy  as  Ma  thinks  he  is.  If  he  had  my 
walking  to  do,  he  would  be  another  boy  entirely.  Four 
times  every  day  I  walk  a  little  over  a  mile;  and  working 
hard  all  day  and  walking  four  miles  is  exercise.  I  am 
used  to  it  now,  though,  and  it  is  no  trouble.  Where  is  it 
Orion's  going  to?  Tell  Ma  my  promises  are  faithfully 
kept;  and  if  I  have  my  health  I  will  take  her  to  Ky. 
in  the  spring.  I  shall  save  money  for  this. 

(It  has  just  struck  2  A.M.,  and  I  always  get  up  at  six 
and.  am  at  work  at  7.)  You  ask  where  I  spend  my  even- 
ings. Where  would  you  suppose,  with  a  free  printers' 
library  containing  more  than  4,000  volumes  within  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  of  me,  and  nobody  at  home  to  talk  to? 
I  shall  write  to  Ella  soon.  Write  soon. 

Truly  your  Brother 

SAMY. 

P.  S. — I  have  written  this  by  a  light  so  dim  that  you 
nor  Ma  could  not  read  by  it. 

We  get  a  fair  idea  of  Samuel  Clemens  at  seventeen 
from  this  letter.  For  one  thing,  he  could  write  good, 
clear  English,  full  of  interesting  facts.  He  is  en- 
thusiastic, but  not  lavish  of  words.  He  impresses  us 
with  his  statement  that  the  visitors  to  the  Palace 
each  day  are  in  number  double  the  population  of 
Hannibal ;  a  whole  river  is  turned  from  its  course  to 
supply  New  York  City  with  water;  the  water  comes 
thirty-eight  miles,  and  each  family  could  use  a 
hundred  barrels  a  day!  The  letter  reveals  his  per- 
sonal side — his  kindly  interest  in  those  left  behind, 
his  anxiety  for  Henry,  his  assurance  that  the  promise 
to  his  mother  was  being  kept,  his  memory  of  her 
longing  to  visit  her  old  home.  And  the  boy  who 
54 


\RK     TWAIN    ARRIVING    IX    NEW    YORK    CITY     IN     1853 


THE    BOY     WHO    HATED     SCHOOL     HAS     BECOME    A    READER 


THE    OPEN    ROAD 

hated  school  has  become  a  reader — he  is  reveling  in 
a  printers'  library  of  thousands  of  volumes.  We 
feel,  somehow,  that  Samuel  Clemens  has  suddenly 
become  quite  a  serious-minded  person,  that  he  has 
left  Tom  Sawyer  and  Joe  Harper  and  Huck  Finn 
somewhere  in  a  beautiful  country  a  long  way  behind. 


EARLIEST   SPECIMEN   OF   MARK  TWAIN's   HANDWRITING 

He  found  work  with  the  firm  of  John  A.  Gray  & 
Green,  general  printers,  in  Cliff  Street.  His  pay  was 
four  dollars  a  week,  in  wild- cat  money- — that  is, 
money  issued  by  private  banks — rather  poor  money, 
being  generally  at  a  discount  and  sometimes  worth- 
less. But  if  wages  were  low,  living  was  cheap  in 
those  days,  and  Sam  Clemens,  lodging  in  a  me- 
chanics' boarding-house  in  Duane  Street,  sometimes 
had  fifty  cents  left  on  Saturday  night  when  his  board 
and  washing  were  paid. 

Luckily,  he  had  not  set  out  to  seek  his  fortune, 
but  only  to  see  something  of  the  world.  He  lingered 
in  New  York  through  the  summer  of  1853,  never 
55 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

expecting  to  remain  long.  His  letters  of  that  period 
were  few.  In  October  he  said,  in  a  letter  to  Pamela, 
that  he  did  not  write  to  the  family  because  he  did 
not  know  their  whereabouts,  Orion  having  sold  the 
paper  and  left  Hannibal. 

"I  have  been  fooling  myself  with  the  idea  that  I 
was  going  to  leave  New  York  every  day  for  the  last 
two  weeks,"  he  adds,  which  sounds  like  the  Mark 
Twain  of  fifty  years  later.  Farther  along,  he  tells  of 
going  to  see  Edwin  Forrest,  then  playing  at  the 
Broadway  Theater : 

The  play  was  the  "Gladiator."  I  did  not  like  parts 
of  it  much,  but  other  portions  were  really  splendid.  In 
the  latter  part  of  the  last  act  .  .  .  the  man's  whole  soul 
seems  absorbed  in  the  part  he  is  playing;  and  it  is  really 
startling  to  see  him.  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  see  him  play 
"Damon  and  Pythias,"  the  former  character  being  the 
greatest.  He  appears  in  Philadelphia  on  Monday  night. 

A  little  farther  along  he  says : 

If  my  letters  do  not  come  often,  you  need  not  bother 
yourself  about  me;  for  if  you  have  a  brother  nearly  eight- 
een years  old  who  is  not  able  to  take  care  of  himself  a  few 
miles  from  home,  such  a  brother  is  not  worth  one's 
thoughts. 

Sam  Clemens  may  have  followed  Forrest  to  Phila- 
delphia. At  any  rate,  he  was  there  presently,  "sub- 
bing" in  the  composing-rooms  of  the  Inquirer,  setting 
ten  thousand  ems  a  day,  and  receiving  pay  accord- 
ingly. When  there  was  no  vacancy  for  him  to  fill, 
he  put  in  the  time  visiting  the  Philadelphia  libraries, 
art  galleries,  and  historic  landmarks.  After  all,  his 
56 


THE   OPEN    ROAD 

chief  business  was  sight-seeing.  Work  was  only  a 
means  to  this  end.  Chilly  evenings,  when  he  re- 
turned to  his  boarding-house,  his  room-mate,  an 
Englishman  named  Sumner,  grilled  a  herring  over 
their  small  open  fire,  and  this  was  a  great  feast.  He 
tried  writing — obituary  poetry,  for  the  Philadelphia 
Ledger — but  it  was  not  accepted. 

"My  efforts  were  not  received  with  approval"  was 
his  comment  long  after. 

In  the  Inquirer  office  there  was  a  printer  named 
Frog,  and  sometimes,  when  he  went  out,  the  office 
"devils"  would  hang  over  his  case  a  line  with  a  hook 
on  it  baited  with  a  piece  of  red  flannel.  They  never 
got  tired  of  this  joke,  and  Frog  never  failed  to  get 
fighting  mad  when  he  saw  that  dangling  string  with 
the  bit  of  red  flannel  at  the  end.  No  doubt  Sam 
Clemens  had  his  share  in  this  mischief. 

Sam  found  that  he  liked  Philadelphia.  He  could 
save  a  little  money  and  send  something  to  his  mother 
— small  amounts,  but  welcome.  Once  he  inclosed  a 
gold  dollar,  "to  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  kind  of 
stuff  we  are  paid  with  in  Philadelphia."  Better  than 
doubtful  "wild-cat,"  certainly.  Of  his  work  he 
writes : 

One  man  has  engaged  me  to  work  for  him  every 
Sunday  till  the  first  of  next  April,  when  I  shall  return  home 
to  take  Ma  to  Ky.  ...  If  I  want  to,  I  can  get  subbing 
every  night  of  the  week.  I  go  to  work  at  seven  in  the 
evening  and  work  till  three  the  next  morning.  .  .  .  The 
type  is  mostly  agate  and  minion,  with  some  bourgeois, 
and  when  one  gets  a  good  agate  "take,"  he  is  sure  to 
make  money.  I  made  $2.50  last  Sunday. 
57 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

There  is  a  long  description  of  a  trip  on  the  Fair- 
mount  stage  in  this  letter,  well-written  and  inter- 
esting, but  too  long  to  have  place  here.  In  the  same 
letter  he  speaks  of  the  graves  of  Benjamin  Franklin 
and  his  wife,  which  he  had  looked  at  through  the 
iron  railing  of  the  locked  inclosure.  Probably  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  there  might  be  points  of  simi- 
larity between  Franklin's  career  and  his  own.  Yet 
in  time  these  would  be  rather  striking :  each  learned 
the  printer's  trade;  each  worked  in  his  brother's 
office  and  wrote  for  the  paper;  each  left  quietly  and 
went  to  New  York,  and  from  New  York  to  Phila- 
delphia, as  a  journeyman  printer;  each  in  due  season 
became  a  world  figure,  many-sided,  human,  and  of 
incredible  popularity. 

Orion  Clemens,  meantime,  had  bought  a  paper  in 
Muscatine,  Iowa,  and  located  the  family  there.  Evi- 
dently by  this  time  he  had  realized  the  value  of  his 
brother  as  a  contributor,  for  Sam,  in  a  letter  to 
Orion,  says,  "I  will  try  to  write  for  the  paper  oc- 
casionally, but  I  fear  my  letters  will  be  very  un- 
interesting, for  this  incessant  night  work  dulls  one's 
ideas  amazingly." 

Meantime,  he  had  passed  his  eighteenth  birthday, 
winter  was  coming  on,  he  had  been  away  from  home 
half  a  year,  and  the  first  attack  of  homesickness  was 
due.  "One  only  has  to  leave  home  to  learn  how  to 
write  interesting  letters  to  an  absent  friend,"  he 
wrote;  and  again,  "I  don't  like  our  present  prospect 
for  cold  weather  at  all." 

He  declared  he  only  wanted  to  get  back  to  avoid 
night  work,  which  was  injuring  his  eyes,  but  we  may 
58 


THE   OPEN    ROAD 

guess  there  was  a  stronger  reason,  which  perhaps 
he  did  not  entirely  realize.  The  novelty  of  wander- 
ing had  worn  off,  and  he  yearned  for  familiar  faces, 
the  comfort  of  those  he  loved. 

But  he  did  not  go.  He  made  a  trip  to  Washing- 
ton in  January — a  sight-seeing  trip — returning  to 
Philadelphia,  where  he  worked  for  the  Ledger  and 
North  American.  Eventually  he  went  back  to  New 
York,  and  from  there  took  ticket  to  St.  Louis.  This 
was  in  the  late  summer  of  1854;  he  had  been  fifteen 
months  away  from  his  people  when  he  stepped  aboard 
the  train  to  return. 

Sam  was  worn  out  when  he  reached  St.  Louis; 
but  the  Keokuk  packet  was  leaving,  and  he  stopped 
only  long  enough  to  see  Pamela,  then  went  aboard 
and,  flinging  himself  into  his  berth,  did  not 
waken  until  the  boat  reached  Muscatine,  Iowa, 
thirty-six  hours  later. 

It  was  very  early  when  he  arrived,  too  early  to 
rouse  the  family.  He  sat  down  in  the  office  of  a 
little  hotel  to  wait  for  morning,  and  picked  up  a  small 
book  that  lay  on  the  writing-table.  It  contained 
pictures  of  the  English  rulers  with  the  brief  facts  of 
their  reigns.  Sam  Clemens  entertained  himself  learn- 
ing these  data  by  heart.  He  had  a  fine  memory  for 
such  things,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  had  those  details 
so  perfectly  committed  that  he  never  forgot  one  of 
them  as  long  as  he  lived.  The  knowledge  acquired 
in  this  stray  fashion  he  found  invaluable  in  later  life. 
It  was  his  groundwork  for  all  English  history. 


A   WIND   OF   CHANCE 

ORION  could  not  persuade  his  brother  to  remain 
in  Muscatine.  Sam  returned  to  his  old  place 
on  the  Evening  News,  in  St.  Louis,  where  he  re- 
mained until  the  following  year,  rooming  with  a 
youth  named  Burrough,  a  journeyman  chair-maker 
with  literary  taste,  a  reader  of  the  English  classics, 
a  companionable  lad,  and  for  Samuel  Clemens  a 
good  influence. 

By  spring,  Orion  Clemens  had  married  and  had 
sold  out  in  Muscatine.  He  was  now  located  in 
Keokuk,  Iowa.  When  presently  Brother  Sam  came 
visiting  to  Keokuk,  Orion  offered  him  five  dollars  a 
week  and  his  board  to  remain.  He  accepted.  Henry 
Clemens,  now  seventeen,  was  also  in  Orion's  employ, 
and  a  lad  named  Dick  Hingham.  Henry  and  Sam 
slept  in  the  office ;  Dick  and  a  young  fellow  named 
Brownell,  who  roomed  above,  came  in  for  social 
evenings. 

They  were  pretty  lively  evenings.  A  music- 
teacher  on  the  floor  below  did  not  care  for  them — 
they  disturbed  his  class.  He  was  furious,  in  fact, 
and  assailed  the  boys  roughly  at  first,  with  no  result 
60 


A   WIND   OF    CHANCE 

but  to  make  matters  worse.  Then  he  tried  gentle- 
ness, and  succeeded.  The  boys  stopped  their  capers 
and  joined  his  class.  Sam,  especially,  became  a 
distinguished  member  of  that  body.  He  was  never 
a  great  musician,  but  with  his  good  nature,  his 
humor,  his  slow,  quaint  speech  and  originality,  he 
had  no  rival  in  popularity.  He  was  twenty  now, 
and  much  with  young  ladies,  yet  he  was  always  a 
beau  rather  than  a  suitor,  a  good  comrade  to  all,  full  of 
pranks  and  pleasantries,  ready  to  stop  and  be  merry 
with  any  that  came  along.  If  they  prophesied  con- 
cerning his  future,  it  is  not  likely  that  they  spoke  of 
literary  fame.  They  thought  him  just  easy-going 
and  light-minded.  True,  they  noticed  that  he  often 
carried  a  book  under  his  arm — a  history,  a  volume  of 
Dickens,  or  the  tales  of  Poe. 

He  read  more  than  any  one  guessed.  At  night, 
propped  up  in  bed — a  habit  continued  until  his 
death — he  was  likely  to  read  until  a  late  hour.  He 
enjoyed  smoking  at  such  times,  and  had  made  him- 
self a  pipe  with  a  large  bowl  which  stood  on  the 
floor  and  had  a  long  rubber  stem,  something  like  the 
Turkish  hubble-bubble.  He  liked  to  fill  the  big 
bowl  and  smoke  at  ease  through  the  entire  evening. 
But  sometimes  the  pipe  went  out,  which  meant  that 
he  must  strike  a  match  and  lean  far  over  to  apply  it, 
just  when  he  was  most  comfortable.  Sam  Clemens 
never  liked  unnecessary  exertion.  One  night,  when 
the  pipe  had  gone  out  for  the  second  time,  he  hap- 
pened to  hear  the  young  book-clerk,  Brownell,  pass- 
ing up  to  his  room  on  the  top  floor.  Sam  called  to 
him: 

61 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

"Ed,  come  here!" 

Brownell  poked  his  head  in  the  door.  The  two 
were  great  chums. 

"What  will  you  have,  Sam?"  he  asked. 

"Come  in,  Ed;  Henry's  asleep,  and  I'm  in  trouble. 
I  want  somebody  to  light  my  pipe." 

"Why  don't  you  light  it  yourself  ?"  Brownell  asked. 

"I  would,  only  I  knew  you'd  be  along  in  a  few 
minutes  and  would  do  it  for  me." 

Brownell  scratched  a  match,  stooped  down,  and 
applied  it. 

"What  are  you  reading,  Sam?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much — a  so-called  funny  book. 
One  of  these  days  I'll  write  a  funnier  book  myself." 

Brownell  laughed.  "No,  you  won't,  Sam,"  he 
said.  "You're  too  lazy  ever  to  write  a  book." 

Years  later,  in  the  course  of  a  lecture  which  he 
delivered  in  Keokuk,  Mark  Twain  said  that  he  sup- 
posed the  most  untruthful  man  in  the  world  lived 
right  there  in  Keokuk,  and  that  his  name  was  Ed 
Brownell. 

Orion  Clemens  did  not  have  the  gift  of  prosperity, 
and  his  printing-office  did  not  flourish.  When  he 
could  no  longer  pay  Sam's  wages  he  took  him  into 
partnership,  which  meant  that  Sam  got  no  wages  at 
all,  though  this  was  of  less  consequence,  since  his 
mother,  now  living  with  Pamela,  was  well  provided 
for.  The  disorder  of  the  office,  however,  distressed 
him.  He  wrote  home  that  he  could  not  work  with- 
out system,  and,  a  little  later,  that  he  was  going  to 
leave  Keokuk,  that,  in  fact,  he  was  planning  a  great 
adventure — a  trip  to  the  upper  Amazon ! 
62 


A   WIND   OF    CHANCE 

His  interest  in  the  Amazon  had  been  awakened  by 
a  book.  Lynch  and  Herndon  had  surveyed  the  up- 
per river,  and  Lieutenant  Herndon's  book  was  widely 
read.  Sam  Clemens,  propped  up  in  bed,  pored  over 
it  through  long  evenings,  and  nightly  made  fabulous 
fortunes  collecting  cocoa  and  other  rare  things — 
resolving,  meantime,  to  start  in  person  for  the  upper 
Amazon  with  no  unnecessary  delay.  Boy  and  man, 
Samuel  Clemens  was  the  same.  His  vision  of  grand 
possibilities  ahead  blinded  him  to  the  ways  and 
means  of  arrival.  It  was  an  inheritance  from  both 
sides  of  his  parentage.  Once,  in  old  age,  he  wrote: 

I  have  been  punished  many  and  many  a  time,  and 
bitterly,  for  doing  things  and  reflecting  afterward.  .  .  . 
When  I  am  reflecting  on  these  occasions,  even  deaf  persons 
can  hear  me  think. 

He  believed,  however,  that  he  had  reflected  care- 
fully concerning  the  Amazon,  and  that  in  a  brief 
time  he  should  be  there  at  the  head  of  an  expe- 
dition, piling  up  untold  wealth.  He  even  stirred  the 
imaginations  of  two  other  adventurers,  a  Dr.  Martin 
and  a  young  man  named  Ward.  To  Henry,  then  in 
St.  Louis,  he  wrote,  August  5,  1856: 

Ward  and  I  held  a  long  consultation  Sunday  morning, 
and  the  result  was  that  we  two  have  determined  to  start 
to  Brazil,  if  possible,  in  six  weeks  from  now,  in  order  to 
look  carefully  into  matters  there  and  report  to  Dr.  Martin 
in  time  for  him  to  follow  on  the  first  of  March. 

The  matter  of  finance  troubled  him.    Orion  could 
not  be  depended  on  for  any  specified  sum,  and  the 
63 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

fare  to  the  upper  Amazon  would  probably  be  con- 
siderable. Sam  planned  different  methods  of  raising 
it.  One  of  them  was  to  go  to  New  York  or  Cincin- 
nati and  work  at  his  trade  until. he  saved  the  amount. 
He  would  then  sail  from  New  York  direct,  or  take 
boat  for  New  Orleans  and  sail  from  there.  Of  course 
there  would  always  be  vessels  clearing  for  the  upper 
Amazon.  After  Lieutenant  Herndon's  book  the 
ocean  would  probably  be  full  of  them. 

He  did  not  make  the  start  with  Ward,  as  planned, 
and  Ward  and  Martin  seem  to  have  given  up  the 
Amazon  idea.  Not  so  with  Samuel  Clemens.  He 
went  on  reading  Herndon,  trying  meantime  to  raise 
money  enough  to  get  him  out  of  Keokuk.  Was  it 
fate  or  Providence  that  suddenly  placed  it  in  his 
hands?  Whatever  it  was,  the  circumstance  is  so 
curious  that  it  must  be  classed  as  one  of  those  strange 
facts  that  have  no  place  in  fiction. 

The  reader  will  remember  how,  one  day  in  Hanni- 
bal, the  wind  had  brought  to  Sam  Clemens,  then 
printer's  apprentice,  a  stray  leaf  from  a  book  about 
Joan  of  Arc,  and  how  that  incident  marked  a 
turning-point  in  his  mental  life.  Now,  seven  years 
later,  it  was  the  wind  again  that  directed  his  fortune. 
It  was  a  day  in  early  November — bleak,  bitter,  and 
gusty,  with  whirling  snow ;  most  persons  were  in- 
doors, f  Samuel  Clemens,  going  down  Main  Street, 
Keokuk,  saw  a  flying  bit  of  paper  pass  him  and  lodge 
against  a  building.  Something  about  it  attracted 
him  and  he  captured  it.  It  was  a  fifty-dollar  bill ! 
He  had  never  seen  one  before,  but  he  recognized  it. 
He  thought  he  must  be  having  a  pleasant  dream. 
64 


A   WIND   OF    CHANCE 

He  was  tempted  to  pocket  his  good  fortune  and 
keep  still.  But  he  had  always  a  troublesome  con- 
science. He  went  to  a  newspaper  office  and  adver- 
tised that  he  had  found  a  sum  of  money,  a  large  bill. 

Once,  long  after,  he  said:  "I  didn't  describe  it 
very  particularly,  and  I  waited  in  daily  fear  that 
the  owner  would  turn  up  and  take  away  my  fortune. 
By  and  by  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  My  con- 
science had  gotten  all  that  was  coming  to  it.  I  felt 
that  I  must  take  that  money  out  of  danger." 

Another  time  he  said,  "I  advertised  the  find  and 
left  for  the  Amazon  the  same  day."  All  of  which  we 
may  take  with  his  usual  literary  discount — the  one 
assigned  to  him  by  his  mother  in  childhood.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  remained  for  an  ample  time,  and 
nobody  came  for  the  money.  What  was  its  origin? 
Was  it  swept  out  of  a  bank,  or  caught  up  by  the 
wind  from  some  counting-room  table?  Perhaps  it 
materialized  out  of  the  unseen.  Who  knows? 


XI 

THE    LONG   WAY   TO   THE   AMAZON 

SAM  decided  on  Cincinnati  as  his  base.  From 
there  he  could  go  either  to  New  York  or  New  Or- 
leans to  catch  the  Amazon  boat.  He  paid  a  visit  to  St. 
Louis,  where  his  mother  made  him  renew  his  promise 
as  to  drink  and  cards.  Then  he  was  seized  with  a 
literary  idea,  and  returned  to  Keokuk,  where  he 
proposed  to  a  thriving  weekly  paper,  the  Saturday 
Post,  to  send  letters  of  travel,  which  might  even  be 
made  into  a  book  later  on.  George  Reese,  owner  of 
the  Post,  agreed  to  pay  five  dollars  each  for  the  let- 
ters, which  speaks  well  for  his  faith  in  Samuel  Clem- 
ens's  talent,  five  dollars  being  good  pay  for  that  time 
and  place — more  than  the  letters  were  worth,  judged 
by  present  standards.  The  first  was  dated  Cin- 
cinnati, November  14,  1856,  and  was  certainly  not 
promising  literature.  It  was  written  in  the  ridicu- 
lous dialect  which  was  once  thought  to  be  the  dress 
of  humor;  and  while  here  and  there  is  a  comic  flash, 
there  is  in  it  little  promise  of  the  future  Mark  Twain. 
One  extract  is  enough : 

When  we  got  to  the  depo',  I  went  around  to  git  a  look 
at  the  iron  hoss.    Thunderation !    It  wasn't  no  more  like 
66 


THE  LONG  WAY  TO  THE  AMAZON 

a  hoss  than  a  meetin'-house.  If  I  was  goin'  to  describe 
the  animule,  I'd  say  it  looked  like — well,  it  looked  like — 
blamed  if  I  know  what  it  looked  like,  snor  ing  fire  and 
brimstone  out  of  his  nostrils,  and  puffin'  out  black  smoke 
all  'round,  and  pantin',  and  heavin',  and  swellin',  and 
chawin'  up  red-hot  coals  like  they  was  good.  A  feller 
stood  in  a  little  house  like,  feedin'  him  all  the  time;  but 
the  more  he  got,  the  more  he  wanted  and  the  more  he 
blowed  and  snorted.  After  a  spell  the  feller  ketched  him 
by  the  tail,  and  great  Jericho!  he  set  up  a  yell  that  split 
the  ground  for  more'n  a  mile  and  a  half,  and  the  next 
minit  I  felt  my  legs  a-waggin',  and  found  myself  at  t'other 
end  of  the  string  o'  vehickles.  I  wasn't  skeered,  but  I 
had  three  chills  and  a  stroke  of  palsy  in  less  than  five 
minits,  and  my  face  had  a  cur'us  brownish-yaller-green- 
bluish  color  in  it,  which  was  perfectly  unaccountable. 
"Well,"  say  I,  "comment  is  super-flu-ous." 

How  Samuel  Clemens  could  have  written  that, 
and  worse,  at  twenty-one,  and  a  little  more  than 
ten  years  later  have  written  The  Innocents  Abroad, 
is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  literature.  The  letters  were 
signed  "Snodgrass,"  and  there  are  but  two  of  them. 
Snodgrass  seems  to  have  found  them  hard  work,  for 
it  is  said  he  raised  on  the  price,  which,  fortunately, 
brought  the  series  to  a  close.  Their  value  to-day 
lies  in  the  fact  that  they  are  the  earliest  of  Mark 
Twain's  newspaper  contributions  that  have  been 
preserved — the  first  for  which  he  received  a  cash 
return. 

Sam  remained  in  Cincinnati  until  April  of  the  fol- 
lowing year,  1857,  working  for  Wrightson  &  Co., 
general  printers,  lodging  in  a  cheap  boarding-house, 
saving  every  possible  penny  for  his  great  adventure. 
67 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

He  had  one  associate  at  the  boarding-house,  a 
lank,  unsmiling  Scotchman  named  Macfarlane, 
twice  young  Clemens's  age,  and  a  good  deal  of  a  mys- 
tery. Sam  never  could  find  out  what  Macfarlane 
did.  His  hands  were  hardened  by  some  sort  of 
heavy  labor;  he  left  at  six  in  the  morning  and  re- 
turned in  the  evening  at  the  same  hour.  He  never 
mentioned  his  work,  and  young  Clemens  had  the 
delicacy  not  to  inquire. 

For  Macfarlane  was  no  ordinary  person.  He  was 
a  man  of  deep  knowledge,  a  reader  of  many  books,  a 
thinker;  he  was  versed  in  history  and  philosophy,  he 
knew  the  dictionary  by  heart.  He  made  but  two 
statements  concerning  himself:  one,  that  he  had 
acquired  his  knowledge  from  reading,  and  not  at 
school;  the  other,  that  he  knew  every  word  in  the 
English  dictionary.  He  was  willing  to  give  proof  of 
the  last,  and  Sam  Clemens  tested  him  more  than 
once,  but  found  no  word  that  Macfarlane  could  not 
define. 

Macfarlane  was  not  silent — he  would  discuss  read- 
ily enough  the  deeper  problems  of  life  and  had  many 
startling  theories  of  his  own.  Darwin  had  not  yet 
published  his  Descent  of  Man,  yet  Macfarlane  was 
already  advancing  ideas  similar  to  those  in  that 
book.  He  went  further  than  Darwin.  He  had 
startling  ideas  of  the  moral  evolution  of  man,  and 
these  he  would  pour  into  the  ears  of  his  young  lis- 
tener until  ten  o'clock,  after  which,  like  the  English 
Sumner  in  Philadelphia,  he  would  grill  a  herring, 
and  the  evening  would  end.  Those  were  fermenting 
discourses  that  young  Samuel  Clemens  listened  to 
68 


THE  LONG  WAY  TO  THE  AMAZON 

that  winter  in  Macfarlane's  room,  and  they  did  not 
fail  to  influence  his  later  thought. 

It  was  the  high-tide  of  spring,  late  in  April,  when 
the  prospective  cocoa-hunter  decided  that  it  was 
time  to  set  out  for  the  upper  Amazon.  He  had 
saved  money  enough  to  carry  him  at  least  as  far  as 
New  Orleans,  where  he  would  take  ship,  it  being 
farther  south  and  therefore  nearer  his  destination. 
Furthermore,  he  could. begin  with  a  lazy  trip  down 
the  Mississippi,  which,  next  to  being  a  pilot,  had  been 
one  of  his  most  cherished  dreams.  The  Ohio  River 
steamers  were  less  grand  than  those  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, but  they  had  a  home-like  atmosphere  and  did 
not  hurry.  Samuel  Clemens  had  the  spring  fever 
and  was  willing  to  take  his  time. 

In  Life  on  the  Mississippi  we  read  that  the  author 
ran  away,  vowing  never  to  return  until  he  could 
come  home  a  pilot,  shedding  glory.  But  this  is  the 
fiction  touch.  He  had  always  loved  the  river,  and 
his  boyhood  dream  of  piloting  had  time  and  again 
returned,  but  it  was  not  uppermost  when  he  bade 
good-by  to  Macfarlane  and  stepped  aboard  the 
Paul  Jones,  bound  for  New  Orleans,  and  thus  con- 
ferred immortality  on  that  ancient  little  craft. 

Now  he  had  really  started  on  his  voyage.  But  it 
was  a  voyage  that  would  continue  not  for  a  week  or 
a  fortnight,  but  for  four  years — four  marvelous,  sun- 
lit years,  the  glory  of  which  would  color  all  that 
followed  them. 

6 


XII 

RENEWING  AN   OLD  AMBITION 

A  READER  of  Mark  Twain's  Mississippi  book 
*\  gets  the  impression  that  the  author  was  a  boy 
of  about  seventeen  when  he  started  to  learn  the 
river,  and  that  he  was  painfully  ignorant  of  the 
great  task  ahead.  But  this  also  is  the  fiction  side 
of  the  story.  Samuel  Clemens  was  more  than 
twenty-one  when  he  set  out  on  the  Paul  Jones,  and 
in  a  way  was  familiar  with  the  trade  of  piloting. 
Hannibal  had  turned  out  many  pilots.  An  older 
brother  of  the  Bowen  boys  was  already  on  the 
river  when  Sam  Clemens  was  rolling  rocks  down 
Holliday's  Hill.  Often  he  came  home  to  air  his 
grandeur  and  hold  forth  on  the  wonder  of  his 
work.  That  learning  the  river  was  no  light  task 
Sam  Clemens  would  know  as  well  as  any  one  who 
had  not  tried  it. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  drowsy  little  steamer  went 
puffing  down  into  softer,  sunnier  lands,  the  old 
dream,  the  "permanent  ambition"  of  boyhood,  re- 
turned, while  the  call  of  the  far-off  Amazon  and 
cocoa  grew  faint. 

70 


RENEWING  AN   OLD   AMBITION 

Horace  Bixby,1  pilot  of  the  Paul  Jones,  a  man  of 
thirty-two,  was  looking  out  over  the  bow  at  the 
head  of  Island  No.  35  when  he  heard  a  slow,  pleasant 
voice  say,  "Good  morning." 

Bixby  was  a  small,  clean-cut  man.  "Good  morn- 
ing, sir,"  he  said,  rather  briskly,  without  looking 
around. 

He  did  not  much  care  for  visitors  in  the  pilot- 
house. This  one  entered  and  stood  a  little  behind 
him. 

"How  would  you  like  a  young  man  to  learn  the 
river?"  came  to  him  in  that  serene,  deliberate  speech. 

The  pilot  glanced  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  a 
rather  slender,  loose-limbed  youth  with  a  fair,  girl- 
ish complexion  and  a  great  mass  of  curly  auburn 
hair. 

"I  wouldn't  like  it.  Cub  pilots  are  more  trouble 
than  they're  worth.  A  great  deal  more  trouble 
than  profit." 

"I  am  a  printer  by  trade,"  the  easy  voice  went 
on.  "It  doesn't  agree  with  me.  I  thought  I'd  go 
to  South  America." 

Bixby  kept  his  eye  on  the  river,  but  there  was 
interest  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke.  "What  makes 
you  pull  your  words  that  way?"  he  asked — "pulling" 
being  the  river  term  for  drawling. 

The  young  man,  now  seated  comfortably  on  the 
visitors'  bench,  said  more  slowly  than  ever:  "You'll 
have  to  ask  my  mother — she  pulls  hers,  too." 

1  Horace  Bixby  lived  until  1912  and  remained  at  the  wheel  until 
within  a  short  time  of  his  death,  in  his  eighty-seventh  year.    The 
writer  of  this  memoir  visited  him  in  1910  and  took  down  from  his 
dictation  the  dialogue  that  follows. 
71 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Pilot  Bixby  laughed.  The  manner  of  the  reply 
amused  him.  His  guest  was  encouraged. 

"Do  you  know  the  Bowen  boys?"  he  asked,  "pi- 
lots in  the  St.  Louis  and  New  Orleans  trade?" 

"I  know  them  well — all  three  of  them.  William 
Bowen  did  his  first  steering  for  me;  a  mighty  good 
boy.  I  know  Sam,  too,  and  Bart." 

"Old  schoolmates  of  mine  in  Hannibal.  Sam  and 
Will,  especially,  were  my  chums." 

Bixby 's  tone  became  friendly.  "Come  over  and 
stand  by  me,"  he  said.  "What  is  your  name?" 

The  applicant  told  him,  and  the  two  stood  looking 
out  on  the  sunlit  water. 

"Do  you  drink?" 

"No." 

"Do  you  gamble ? ' ' 

"No,  sir." 

"Do  you  swear?" 

"N-not  for  amusement;  only  under  pressure." 

" Do  you  chew?" 

"No,  sir,  never;  but  I  must — smoke." 

"Did  you  ever  do  any  steering?" 

'"I  have  steered  everything  on  the  river  but  a 
steamboat,  I  guess." 

' '  Very  well.  Take  the  wheel  and  see  what  you  can 
do  with  a  steamboat.  Keep  her  as  she  is — toward 
that  lower  cottonwood  snag." 

Bixby  had  a  sore  foot  and  was  glad  of  a  little 
relief.  He  sat  on  the  bench  where  he  could  keep  a 
careful  eye  on  the  course.  By  and  by  he  said: 
"There  is  just  one  way  I  would  take  a  young  man 
to  learn  the  river — that  is,  for  money." 
72 


RENEWING   AN   OLD   AMBITION 

"What — do  you — charge?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars,  and  I  to  be  at  no  expense 
whatever." 

In  those  days  pilots  were  allowed  to  carry  a 
learner,  or  "cub,"  board  free.  Mr.  Bixby  meant 
that  he  was  to  be  at  no  expense  in  port  or  for  inci- 
dentals. His  terms  seemed  discouraging. 

"I  haven't  got  five  hundred  "dollars  in  money," 
Sam  said.  "I've  got  a  lot  of  Tennessee  land  worth 
two  bits  an  acre.  I'll  give  you  two  thousand  acres 
of  that." 

Bixby  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
want  any  unimproved  real  estate.  I  have  too  much 
already." 

Sam  reflected.  He  thought  he  might  be  able  to 
borrow  one  hundred  dollars  from  William  Moffett, 
Pamela's  husband,  without  straining  his  credit. 

"Well,  then,"  he  proposed,  "I'll  give  you  one 
hundred  dollars  cash,  and  the  rest  when  I  earn  it." 

Something  about  this  young  man  had  won  Horace 
Bixby 's  heart.  His  slow,  pleasant  speech,  his  un- 
hurried, quiet  manner  at  the  wheel,  his  evident  sim- 
plicity and  sincerity — the  inner  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart  which  would  make  the  world  love  Mark  Twain. 
The  terms  proposed  were  accepted.  The  first  pay- 
ment was  to  be  in  cash;  the  others  were  to  begin 
when  the  pupil  had  learned  the  river  and  was  earn- 
ing wages.  During  the  rest  of  the  trip  to  New 
Orleans  the  new  pupil  was  often  at  the  wheel,  while 
Mr.  Bixby  nursed  his  sore  foot  and  gave  directions. 
Any  literary  ambitions  that  Samuel  Clemens  still 
nourished  waned  rapidly.  By  the  time  he  had 
73 


THE    BOYS*    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

reached  New  Orleans  he  had  almost  forgotten  he 
had  ever  been  a  printer.  As  for  the  Amazon  and 
cocoa,  why,  there  had  been  no  ship  sailing  in  that 
direction  for  years,  and  it  was  unlikely  that  any 
would  ever  sail  again,  a  fact  that  rather  amused  the 
would-be  adventurer  now,  since  Providence  had  reg- 
ulated his  affairs  in  accordance  with  his  oldest  and 
longest-cherished  dream. 

At  New  Orleans  Bixby  left  the  Paul  Jones  for  a 
fine  St.  Louis  boat,  taking  his  cub  with  him.  This 
was  a  sudden  and  happy  change,  and  Sam  was  a 
good  deal  impressed  with  his  own  importance  in 
belonging  to  so  imposing  a  structure,  especially 
when,  after  a  few  days'  stay  in  New  Orleans,  he 
stood  by  Bixby 's  side  in  the  big  glass  turret  while 
they  backed  out  of  the  line  of  wedged-in  boats  and 
headed  up  the  great  river. 

This  was  glory,  but  there  was  sorrow  ahead.  He 
had  not  really  begun  learning  the  river  as  yet — he 
had  only  steered  under  directions.  He  had  known 
that  to  learn  the  river  would  be  hard,  but  he  had 
never  realized  quite  how  hard.  Serenely  he  had 
undertaken  the  task  of  mastering  twelve  hundred 
miles  of  the  great,  changing,  shifting  river  as  ex- 
actly and  as  surely  by  daylight  or  darkness  as  one 
knows  the  way  to  his  own  features.  Nobody  could 
realize  the  full  size  of  that  task — not  till  afterward. 


XIII 

LEARNING  THE   RIVER 

IN  that  early  day,  to  be  a  pilot  was  to  be  "greater 
than  a  king."  The  Mississippi  River  pilot  was  a 
law  unto  himself — there  was  none  above  him.  His 
direction  of  the  boat  was  absolute;  he  could  start 
or  lay  up  when  he  chose;  he  could  pass  a  landing 
regardless  of  business  there,  consulting  nobody,  not 
even  the  captain;  he  could  take  the  boat  into  what 
seemed  certain  destruction,  if  he  had  that  mind,  and 
the  captain  was  obliged  to  stand  by,  helpless  and 
silent,  for  the  law  was  with  the  pilot  in  everything. 
Furthermore,  the  pilot  was  a  gentleman.  His 
work  was  clean  and  physically  light.  It  ended  the 
instant  the  boat  was  tied  to  the  landing,  and  did  not 
begin  again  until  it  was  ready  to  back  into  the  stream. 
Also,  for  those  days  his  salary  was  princely — the 
Vice-President  of  the  United  States  did  not  receive 
more.  As  for  prestige,  the  Mississippi  pilot,  perched 
high  in  his  glass  inclosure,  fashionably  dressed,  and 
commanding  all  below  him,  was  the  most  conspicu- 
ous and  showy,  the  most  observed  and  envied 
creature  in  the  world.  No  wonder  Sam  Clemens, 
with  his  love  of  the  river  and  his  boyish  fondness 
75 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

for  honors,  should  aspire  to  that  stately  rank.  Even 
at  twenty-one  he  was  still  just  a  boy — as,  indeed,  he 
was  till  his  death — and  we  may  imagine  how  elated 
he  was,  starting  up  the  great  river  as  a  real  appren- 
tice pilot,  who  in  a  year  or  two  would  stand  at  the 
wheel,  as  his  chief  was  now  standing,  a  monarch  with 
a  splendid  income  and  all  the  great  river  packed 
away  in  his  head. 

In  that  last  item  lay  the  trouble.  In  the  Missis- 
sippi book  he  tells  of  it  in  a  way  that  no  one  may 
hope  to  equal,  and  if  the  details  are  not  exact,  the 
truth  is  there — at  least  in  substance. 

For  a  distance  above  New  Orleans  Mr.  Bixby 
had  volunteered  information  about  the  river,  naming 
the  points  and  crossings,  in  what  seemed  a  casual 
way,  all  through  his  watch  of  four  hours.  Their 
next  watch  began  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and 
Mark  Twain  tells  how  surprised  and  disgusted  he 
was  to  learn  that  pilots  must  get  up  in  the  night  to 
run  their  boats,  and  his  amazement  to  find  Mr. 
Bixby  plunging  into  the  blackness  ahead  as  if  it 
had  been  daylight.  Very  likely  this  is  mainly  fic- 
tion, but  hardly  the  following : 

Presently  he  turned  to  me  and  said:  "What's  the  name 
of  the  first  point  above  New  Orleans?" 

I  was  gratified  to  be  able  to  answer  promptly,  and  I  did. 
I  said  I  didn't  know. 

"Don't  know!" 

His  manner  jolted  me.  I  was  down  at  the  foot  again,  in 
a  moment.  But  I  had  to  say  just  what  I  had  said  before. 

"Well,  you're  a  smart  one,"  said  Mr.  Bixby.    "What's 
the  name  of  the  next  point?" 
76 


LEARNING   THE    RIVER 

Once  more  I  didn't  know. 

"Well,  this  beats  anything!  Tell  me  the  name  of  any 
point  or  place  I  told  you." 

I  studied  awhile  and  decided  that  I  couldn't. 

"Look  here!  What  do  you  start  from,  above  Twelve- 
Mile  Point,  to  cross  over?" 

"I — I — don't  know." 

"  'You — you  don't  know,'"  mimicking  my  drawling 
manner  of  speech.  "What  do  you  know?" 

"I — I —    Nothing,  for  certain." 

Bixby  was  a  small,  nervous  man,  hot  and  quick- 
firing.  He  went  off  now,  and  said  a  number  of 
severe  things.  Then : 

"Look  here,  what  do  you  suppose  I  told  you  the  names 
of  those  points  for?" 

I  tremblingly  considered  a  moment — then  the  devil  of 
temptation  provoked  me  to  say:  "Well — to — to — be  en- 
tertaining, I  thought." 

This  was  a  red  flag  to  the  bull.  He  raged  and  stormed 
so  (he  was  crossing  the  river  at  the  time)  that  I  judged 
it  made  him  blind,  because  he  ran  over  the  steering-oar 
of  a  trading-scow.  Of  course  the  traders  sent  up  a 
volley  of  red-hot  profanity.  Never  was  a  man  so  grateful 
as  Mr.  Bixby  was,  because  he  was  brimful,  and  here  were 
subjects  who  would  talk  back.  He  threw  open  a  window, 
thrust  his  head  out,  and  such  an  irruption  followed  as  I 
had  never  heard  before.  .  .  .  When  he  closed  the  window 
he  was  empty.  Presently  he  said  to  me,  in  the  gentlest 
way: 

"My  boy,  you  must  get  a  little  memorandum-book, 
and  every  time  I  tell  you  a  thing,  put  it  down  right  away. 
There's  only  one  way  to  be  a  pilot,  and  that  is  to  get  this 
entire  river  by  heart.  You  have  to  know  it  just  like 
A-B-C." 

77 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

The  little  memorandum-book  which  Sam  Clemens 
bought,  probably  at  the  next  daylight  landing,  still 
exists — the  same  that  he  says  "fairly  bristled  with 
the  names  of  towns,  points,  bars,  islands,  bends, 
reaches,  etc.";  but  it  made  his  heart  ache  to  think 
he  had  only  half  the  river  set  down,  for,  as  the 
watches  were  four  hours  off  and  four  hours  on, 
there  were  the  long  gaps  where  he  had  slept. 

It  is  not  easy  to  make  out  the  penciled  notes  to- 
day. The  small,  neat  writing  is  faded,  and  many  of 
them  are  in  an  abbreviation  made  only  for  himself. 
It  is  hard  even  to  find  these  examples  to  quote: 

MERIWETHER'S  BEND 

One-fourth  less  31 — run  shape  of  upper  bar  and  go  into 
the  low  place  in  the  willows  about  200  (ft.)  lower  down 
than  last  year. 

OUTSIDE  OF  MONTEZUMA 

Six  or  eight  feet  more  water.  Shape  bar  till  high  timber 
on  towhead  gets  nearly  even  with  low  willows.  Then  hold 
a  little  open  on  right  of  low  willows — run  'em  close  if  you 
want  to,  but  come  out  200  yards  when  you  get  nearly  to 
head  of  towhead. 

The  average  mind  would  not  hold  a  single  one  of 
these  notes  ten  seconds,  yet  by  the  time  he  reached 
St.  Louis  he  had  set  down  pages  that  to-day  make 
one's  head  weary  even  to  contemplate.  And  those 
long  four-hour  gaps  where  he  had  been  asleep — they 
are  still  there;  and  now,  after  nearly  sixty  years, 
the  old  heartache  is  still  in  them.  He  must  have 

1  Depth  of  water.    One-quarter  less  than  three  fathoms. 
78 


LEARNING   THE    RIVER 

bought  a  new  book  for  the  next  trip  and  laid  this 
one  away. 

To  the  new  "cub"  it  seemed  a  long  way  to  St. 
Louis  that  first  trip,  but  in  the  end  it  was  rather 
grand  to  come  steaming  up  to  the  big,  busy  city, 
with  its  thronging  waterfront  flanked  with  a  solid 
mile  of  steamboats,  and  to  nose  one's  way  to  a 
place  in  that  stately  line. 

At  St.  Louis,  Sam  borrowed  from  his  brother-in- 
law  the  one  hundred  dollars  he  had  agreed  to  pay, 
and  so  closed  his  contract  with  Bixby.  A  few  days 
later  his  chief  was  engaged  to  go  on  a  very  grand 
boat  indeed — a  "sumptuous  temple,"  he  tells  us,  all 
brass  and  inlay,  with  a  pilot-house  so  far  above  the 
water  that  he  seemed  perched  on  a  mountain.  This 
part  of  learning  the  river  was  worth  while;  and 
when  he  found  that  the  regiment  of  natty  ser- 
vants respectfully  "sir'd"  him,  his  happiness  was 
complete. 

But  he  was  in  the  depths  again,  presently,  for 
when  they  started  down  the  river  and  he  began  to 
take  account  of  his  knowledge,  he  found  that  he  had 
none.  Everything  had  changed — that  is,  he  was 
seeing  it  all  from  the  other  direction.  What  with 
the  four-hour  gaps  and  this  transformation,  he  wras 
lost  completely. 

How  could  the  easy-going,  dreamy,  unpractical 
man  whom  the  world  knew  as  Mark  Twain  ever 
have  persisted  against  discouragement  like  that  to 
acquire  the  vast,  the  absolute,  limitless  store  of  in- 
formation necessary  to  Mississippi  piloting?  The 
answer  is  that  he  loved  the  river,  the  picturesque- 
79 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF  ^MARK    TWAIN 

ness  and  poetry  of  a  steamboat,  the  ease  and  glory 
of  a  pilot's  life;  and  then,  in  spite  of  his  own  later 
claims  to  the  contrary,  Samuel  Clemens,  boy  and 
man,  in  the  work  suited  to  his  tastes  and  gifts,  was 
the  most  industrious  of  persons.  Work  of  the  other 
sort  he  avoided,  overlooked,  refused  to  recognize, 
but  never  any  labor  for  which  he  was  qualified  by 
his  talents  or  training.  Piloting  suited  him  exactly, 
and  he  proved  an  apt  pupil. 

Horace  Bixby  said  to  the  writer  of  this  memoir : 
"Sam  was  always  good-natured,  and  he  had  a  nat- 
ural taste  for  the  river.  He  had  a  fine  memory  and 
never  forgot  what  I  told  him." 

Yet  there  must  have  been  hard  places  all  along, 
for  to  learn  every  crook  and  turn  and  stump  and 
snag  and  bluff  and  bar  and  sounding  of  that  twelve 
hundred  miles  of  mighty,  shifting  water  was  a  gi- 
gantic task.  Mark  Twain  tells  us  how,  when  he  was 
getting  along  pretty  well,  his  chief  one  day  turned 
on  him  suddenly  with  this  "settler": 

"What  is  the  shape  of  Walnut  Bend?" 

He  might  as  well  have  asked  me  my  grandmother's 
opinion  of  protoplasm.  I  replied  respectfully  and  said  I 
didn't  know  it  had  any  particular  shape.  My  gunpowdery 
chief  went  off  with  a  bang,  of  course,  and  then  went  on 
loading  and  firing  until  he  was  out  of  adjectives.  ...  I 
waited.  By  and  by  he  said : 

"My  boy,  you've  got  to  know  the  shape  of  the  river 
perfectly.  It  is  all  that  is  left  to  steer  by  on  a  very  dark 
night.  Everything  else  is  blotted  out  and  gone.  But 
mind  you,  it  hasn't  got  the  same  shape  in  the  night  that 
it  has  in  the  daytime." 

80 


LEARNING   THE    RIVER 

"How  on  earth  am  I  going  to  learn  it,  then?" 

"How  do  you  follow  a  hall  at  home  in  the  dark?  Be- 
cause you  know  the  shape  of  it.  You  can't  see  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I've  got  to  know  all  the 
million  trifling  variations  of  shape  in  the  banks  of  this 
interminable  river  as  well  as  I  know  the  shape  of  the 
front  hall  at  home?" 

"On  my  honor,  you've  got  to  know  them  better  than 
any  man  ever  did  know  the  shapes  of  the  halls  in  his  own 
house." 

"I  wish  I  was  dead!" 

But  the  reader  must  turn  to  Chapter  VIII  of 
Life  on  the  Mississippi  and  read,  or  reread,  the 
pages  which  follow  this  extract — nothing  can  better 
convey  the  difficulties  of  piloting.  That  Samuel 
Clemens  had  the  courage  to  continue  is  the  best 
proof,  not  only  of  his  great  love  of  the  river,  but  of 
that  splendid  gift  of  resolution  that  one  rarely  fails 
to  find  in  men  of  the  foremost  rank. 


XIV 

RIVER  DAYS 

OILOTING  was  only  a  part  of  Sam  Clemens's 
•*•  education  on  the  Mississippi.  He  learned  as 
much  of  the  reefs  and  shallows  of  human  nature  as 
of  the  river-bed.  In  one  place  he  writes : 

In  that  brief,  sharp  schooling  I  got  personally  and 
familiarly  acquainted  with  all  the  different  types  of  human 
nature  that  are  to  be  found  in  fiction,  biography,  or  history. 

All  the  different  types,  but  most  of  them  in  the 
rough.  That  Samuel  Clemens  kept  the  promise 
made  to  his  mother  as  to  drink  and  cards  during 
those  apprentice  days  is  well  worth  remembering. 

Horace  Bixby,  answering  a  call  for  pilots  from  the 
Missouri  River,  consigned  his  pupil,  as  was  custom- 
ary, to  one  of  the  pilots  of  the  John  J.  Roe,  a  freight- 
boat,  owned  and  conducted  by  some  retired  farmers, 
and  in  its  hospitality  reminding  Sam  of  his  Uncle 
John  Quarles's  farm.  The  Roe  was  a  very  deliberate 
boat.  It  was  said  that  she  could  beat  an  island  to 
St.  Louis,  but  never  quite  overtake  the  current  going 
down-stream.  Sam  loved  the  Roe.  She  was  not 
licensed  to  carry  passengers,  but  she  always  had 
82 


RIVER    DAYS 

a  family  party  of  the  owners'  relations  aboard,  and 
there  was  a  big  deck  for  dancing  and  a  piano  in  the 
cabin.  The  young  pilot  could  play  the  chords,  and 
sing,  in  his  own  fashion,  about  a  grasshopper  that 
sat  on  a  sweet-potato  vine,  and  about — 

An  old,  old  horse  whose  name  was  Methusalem, 
Took  him  down  and  sold  him  in  Jerusalem, 
A  long  time  ago. 

The  Roe  was  a  heavenly  place,  but  Sam's  stay  there 
did  not  last.  Bixby  came  down  from  the  Missouri, 
and  perhaps  thought  he  was  doing  a  fine  thing  for 
his  pupil  by  transferring  him  to  a  pilot  named  Brown, 
then  on  a  large  passenger-steamer,  the  Pennsylvania. 
The  Pennsylvania  was  new  and  one  of  the  finest 
boats  on  the  river.  Sam  Clemens,  by  this  time,  was 
accounted  a  good  steersman,  so  it  seemed  fortunate 
and  a  good  arrangement  for  all  parties. 

But  Brown  was  a  tyrant.  He  was  illiterate  and 
coarse,  and  took  a  dislike  to  Sam  from  the  start. 
His  first  greeting  was  a  question,  harmless  enough 
in  form  but  offensive  in  manner. 

"Are  you  Horace  Bigsby's  cub?" — Bixby  being 
usually  pronounced  "Bigsby"  in  river  parlance. 

Sam  answered  politely  enough  that  he  was,  and 
Brown  proceeded  to  comment  on  the  "style"  of  his 
clothes  and  other  personal  matters. 

He  had  made  an  effort  to  please  Brown,  but  it 

was  no   use.     Brown  was  never    satisfied.     At   a 

moment  when  Sam  was  steering,  Brown,  sitting  on 

the  bench,  would  shout:    "Here!    Where  are  you 

83 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

going  now?     Pull  her  down!     Pull  her  down!     Do 
you  hear  me?    Blamed  mud-cat!" 

The  young  pilot  soon  learned  to  detest  his  chief, 
and  presently  was  putting  in  a  good  deal  of  his  time 
inventing  punishments  for  him. 

I  could  imagine  myself  killing  Brown;  there  was  no 
law  against  that,  and  that  was  the  thing  I  always  used  to 
do  the  moment  I  was  abed.  Instead  of  going  over  the 
river  in  my  mind,  as  was  my  duty,  I  threw  business  aside 
for  pleasure,  and  killed  Brown. 

He  gave  up  trying  to  please  Brown,  and  was  even 
willing  to  stir  him  up  upon  occasion.  One  day  when 
the  cub  was  at  the  wheel  his  chief  noticed  that  the 
course  seemed  peculiar. 

"Here!  Where  you  headin'  for  now?"  he  yelled. 
"What  in  the  nation  you  steerin'  at,  anyway? 
Blamed  numskull!" 

"Why,"  said  Sam  in  his  calm,  slow  way,  "I 
didn't  see  much  else  I  could  steer  for,  so  I  was  head- 
ing for  that  white  heifer  on  the  bank." 

"Get  away  from  that  wheel!  And  get  outen  this 
pilot-house!"  yelled  Brown.  "You  ain't  fatten 
to  become  no  pilot !"  An  order  that  Sam  found  wel- 
come enough.  The  other  pilot,  George  Ealer,  was 
a  lovable  soul  who  played  the  flute  and  chess  during 
his  off  watch,  and  read  aloud  to  Sam  from  Gold- 
smith and  Shakespeare.  To  be  with  George  Ealer 
was  to  forget  the  persecutions  of  Brown. 

Young  Clemens  had  been  on  the  river  nearly  a 
year  at  this  time,  and,  though  he  had  learned  a  good 
deal  and  was  really  a  fine  steersman,  he  received  no 
84 


RIVER    DAYS 

wages.  He  had  no  board  to  pay,  but  there  were 
things  he  must  buy,  and  his  money  supply  had  be- 
come limited.  Each  trip  of  the  Pennsylvania  she  re- 
mained about  two  days  and  nights  in  New  Orleans, 
during  which  time  the  young  man  was  free.  He 
found  he  could  earn  two  and  a  half  to  three  dollars 
a  night  watching  freight  on  the  levee,  and,  as  this 
opportunity  came  around  about  once  a  month,  the 
amount  was  useful.  Nor  was  this  the  only  return; 
many  years  afterward  he  said: 

"It  was  a  desolate  experience,  watching  there  in 
the  dark,  among  those  piles  of  freight ;  not  a  sound, 
not  a  living  creature  astir.  But  it  was  not  a  profitless 
one.  I  used  to  have  inspirations  as  I  sat  there  alone 
those  nights.  I  used  to  imagine  all  sorts  of  situa- 
tions and  possibilities.  These  things  got  into  my 
books  by  and  by,  and  furnished  me  with  many  a 
chapter.  I  can  trace '  the  effects  of  those  nights 
through  most  of  my  books,  in  one  way  and  another." 

Piloting,  even  with  Brown,  had  its  pleasant  side. 
In  St.  Louis,  young  Clemens  stopped  with  his  sister, 
and  often  friends  were  there  from  Hannibal.  At 
both  ends  of  the  line  he  visited  friendly  boats,  es- 
pecially the  Roe,  where  a  grand  welcome  was  always 
waiting.  Once  among  the  guests  of  that  boat  a, 
young  girl  named  Laura  so  attracted  him  that  he 
forgot  time  and  space  until  one  of  the  Roe  pilots, 
Zeb  Leaven  worth,  came  flying  aft,  shouting: 

"The  Pennsylvania  is  backing  out!" 

A  hasty  good-by,  a  wild  flight  across  the  decks  of 
several  boats,  and  a  leap  across  several  feet  of  open 
water  closed  the  episode.  He  wrote  to  Laura,  but 

7  8S 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

there  was  no  reply.  He  never  saw  her  again,  never 
heard  from  her  for  nearly  fifty  years,  when  both  were 
widowed  and  old.  She  had  not  received  his  letter. 
Occasionally  there  were  stirring  adventures  aboard 
the  Pennsylvania.  In  a  letter  written  in  March, 
1858,  the  young  pilot  tells  of  an  exciting  night  search 
in  the  running  ice  for  Hat  Island  soundings : 

Brown,  the  pilot,  stood  in  the  bow  with  an  oar,  to  keep 
her  head  out,  and  I  took  the  tiller.  We  would  start  the 
men,  and  all  would  go  well  until  the  yawl  would  bring  us 
on  a  heavy  cake  of  ice,  and  then  the  men  would  drop  like 
so  many  tenpins,  while  Brown  assumed  the  horizontal  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat.  After  an  hour's  hard  work  we 
got  back,  with  ice  half  an  inch  thick  on  the  oars.  .  .  . 
The  next  day  was  colder  still.  I  was  out  in  the  yawl  twice, 
and  then  we  got  through,  but  the  infernal  steamboat  came 
near  running  over  us.  ...  The  Maria  Denning  was 
aground  at  the  head  of  the  island;  they  hailed  us;  we 
ran  alongside,  and  they  hoisted  us  in  and  thawed  us  out. 
We  had  been  out  in  the  yawl  from  four  in  the  morning 
until  half -past  nine  without  being  near  a  fire.  There  was 
a  thick  coating  of  ice  over  men  and  yawl,  ropes,  and 
everything,  and  we  looked  like  rock-candy  statuary. 

He  was  at  the  right  age  to  enjoy  such  adventures, 
and  to  feel  a  pride  in  them.  In  the  same  letter  he 
tells  how  he  found  on  the  Pennsylvania  a  small 
clerkship  for  his  brother  Henry,  who  was  now  nearly 
twenty,  a  handsome,  gentle  boy  of  whom  Sam  was 
lavishly  fond  and  proud.  The  young  pilot  was  eager 
to  have  Henry  with  him — to  see  him  started  in  life. 
How  little  he  dreamed  what  sorrow  would  come  of 
his  well-meant  efforts  in  the  lad's  behalf!  Yet  he 
86 


"  BROWN,  THE    PILOT,  STOOD   IN   THE    BOW,  AND   I   TOOK    THE   TILLED 


RIVER   DAYS 

always  believed,  later,  that  he  had  a  warning,  for 
one  night  at  the  end  of  May,  in  St.  Louis,  he  had  a 
vivid  dream,  which  time  would  presently  fulfil. 

An  incident  now  occurred  on  the  Pennsylvania 
that  closed  Samuel  Clemens's  career  on  that  boat. 
It  was  the  down  trip,  and  the  boat  was  in  Eagle 
Bend  when  Henry  Clemens  appeared  on  the  hurri- 
cane deck  with  an  announcement  from  the  captain 
of  a  landing  a  little  lower  down.  Brown,  who  would 
never  own  that  he  was  rather  deaf,  probably  mis- 
understood the  order.  They  were  passing  the 
landing  when  the  captain  appeared  on  the  deck. 

"Didn't  Henry  tell  you  to  land  here?"  he  called  to 
Brown. 

"No,  sir." 

Captain  Klinefelter  turned  to  Sam.  Didn't  you 
hear  him?" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

Brown  said:  "Shut  your  mouth!  You  never 
heard  anything  of  the  kind!" 

Henry  appeared,  not  suspecting  any  trouble. 

Brown  said,  fiercely,  "Here,  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  we  had  got  to  land  at  that  plantation?" 

"I  did  tell  you,  Mr.  Brown,"  Henry  said,  politely. 

"It's  a  He!" 

Sam  Clemens  could  stand  Brown's  abuse  of  him- 
self, but  not  of  Henry.  He  said:  "You  lie  yourself. 
He  did  tell  you!" 

For  a  cub  pilot  to  defy  his  chief  was  unheard  of. 
Brown  was  dazed,  then  he  shouted: 

"I'll  attend  to  your  case  in  half  a  minute!"    And 
to  Henry,  "Get  out  of  here!" 
87 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Henry  had  started  when  Brown  seized  him  by 
the  collar  and  struck  him  in  the  face.  An  instant 
later  Sam  was  upon  Brown  with  a  heavy  stool  and 
stretched  him  on  the  floor.  Then  all  the  repressed 
fury  of  months  broke  loose;  and,  leaping  upon 
Brown  and  holding  him  down  with  his  knees,  Sam- 
uel Clemens  pounded  the  tyrant  with  his  fists  till 
his  strength  gave  out.  He  let  Brown  go  then,  and 
the  latter,  with  pilot  instinct,  sprang  to  the  wheel, 
for  the  boat  was  drifting.  Seeing  she  was  safe,  he 
seized  a  spy-glass  as  a  weapon  and  ordered  his  chas- 
tiser  out  of  the  pilot-house.  But  Sam  lingered.  He 
had  become  very  calm,  and  he  openly  corrected 
Brown's  English. 

"Don't  give  me  none  of  your  airs!"  yelled  Brown. 
"I  ain't  goin'  to  stand  nothin'  more  from  you!" 

"You  should  say,  'Don't  give  me  any  of  your 
airs,'  "  Sam  said,  sweetly,  "and  the  last  half  of 
your  sentence  almost  defies  correction." 

A  group  of  passengers  and  white-aproned  ser- 
vants, assembled  on  the  deck  forward,  applauded  the 
victor.  Sam  went  down  to  find  Captain  Klinefelter. 
He  expected  to  be  put  in  irons,  for  it  was  thought  to 
be  mutiny  to  strike  a  pilot. 

The  captain  took  Sam  into  his  private  room  and 
made  some  inquiries.  Mark  Twain,  in  the  Missis- 
sippi book,  remembers  them  as  follows: 

"Did  you  strike  him  first?"  Captain  Klinefelter  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  with?" 

"A  stool,  sir." 

"Hard?" 

88 


RIVER    DAYS 

'Middling,  sir." 

'Did  it  knock  him  down?" 

'  He-he  fell,  sir." 

'  Did  you  follow  it  up  ?    Did  you  do  anything  further  ?" 

'Yes,  sir." 

'What  did  you  do?" 

'Pounded  him,  sir." 

'Pounded  him?" 

'Yes,  sir." 

'Did  you  pound  him  much — that  is,  severely?" 

'One  might  call  it  that,  sir,  maybe." 

'  I  am  mighty  glad  of  it !  Hark  ye — never  mention  that 
I  said  that!  You  have  been  guilty  of  a  great  crime;  and 
don't  ever  be  guilty  of  it  again  on  this  boat,  but — lay  for 
him  ashore!  Give  him* a  good,  sound  thrashing,  do  you 
hear?  I'll  pay  the  expenses." 

In  a  letter  which  Samuel  Clemens  wrote  to  Orion's 
wife,  immediately  after  this  incident,  he  gives  the 
details  of  the  encounter  with  Brown  and  speaks  of 
Captain  Klinefelter's  approval.1  Brown  declared  he 
would  leave  the  boat  at  New  Orleans  if  Sam  Clemens 
remained  on  it,  and  the  captain  told  him  to  go, 
offering  to  let  Sam  himself  run  the  daylight  watches 
back  to  St.  Louis,  thus  showing  his  faith  in  the 
young  steersman.  The  "cub,"  however,  had  less 
confidence,  and  advised  that  Brown  be  kept  for  the 
up  trip,  saying  he  would  follow  by  the  next  boat. 
It  was  a  decision  that  probably  saved  his  life. 

That  night,  watching  on  the  levee,  Henry  joined 
him,  when  his  own  duties  were  finished,  and  the 

1  In  the  Mississippi  book  the  author  says  that  Brown  was  about 
to  strike  Henry  with  a  lump  of  coal,  but  in  the  letter  above  men- 
tioned the  details  are  as  here  given. 
89 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

brothers  made  the  round  together.  It  may  have 
been  some  memory  of  his  dream  that  made  Samuel 
Clemens  say: 

"Henry,  in  case  of  accident,  whatever  you  do, 
don't  lose  your  head' — the  passengers  will  do  that. 
Rush  for  the  hurricane-deck  and  to  the  life-boat, 
and  obey  the  mate's  orders.  When  the  boat  is 
launched,  help  the  women  and  children  into  it. 
Don't  get  in  yourself.  The  river  is  only  a  mile  wide. 
You  can  swim  ashore  easily  enough." 

It  was  good,  manly  advice,  but  a  long  grief  lay 
behind  it. 


XV 

THE   WRECK   OF  THE    "PENNSYLVANIA" 

'"THE  A.  T.  Lacy,  that  brought  Samuel  Clemens 
A  up  the  river,  was  two  days  behind  the  Penn- 
sylvania. At  Greenville,  Mississippi,  a  voice  from 
the  landing  shouted: 

"The  Pennsylvania  is  blown  up  just  below  Mem- 
phis, at  Ship  Island.  One  hundred  and  fifty  lives 
lost!" 

It  proved  a  true  report.  At  six  o'clock  that  warm 
mid- June  morning,  while  loading  wood,  sixty  miles 
below  Memphis,  four  out  of  eight  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania's boilers  had  suddenly  exploded,  with  fearful 
results.  Henry  Clemens  had  been  one  of  the  vic- 
tims. He  had  started  to  swim  for  the  shore,  only  a 
few  hundred  yards  away,  but  had  turned  back  to 
assist  in  the  rescue  of  others.  What  followed  could 
not  be  clearly  learned.  He  was  terribly  injured,  and 
died  on  the  fourth  night  after  the  catastrophe.  His 
brother  was  with  him  by  that  time,  and  believed  he 
recognized  the  exact  fulfilment  of  his  dream. 

The  young  pilot's  grief  was  very  great.  In  a  letter 
home  he  spoke  of  the  dying  boy  as  "My  darling,  my 
pride,  my  glory,  my  all."  His  heavy  sorrow,  and  the 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

fact  that  with  unsparing  self -blame  he  held  himself 
in  a  measure  responsible  for  his  brother's  tragic 
death,  saddened  his  early  life.  His  early  gaiety 
came  back,  but  his  face  had  taken  on  the  serious, 
pathetic  look  which  from  that  time  it  always  wore 
in  repose.  Less  than  twenty-three,  he  had  suddenly 
the  look  of  thirty,  and  while  Samuel  Clemens  in 
spirit,  temperament,  and  features  never  would  be- 
come really  old,  neither  would  he  ever  look  really 
young  again. 

He  returned  to  the  river  as  steersman  for  George 
Ealer,  whom  he  loved,  and  in  September  of  that 
year  obtained  a  full  license  as  Mississippi  River 
pilot  from  St.  Louis  to  New  Orleans.  In  eighteen 
months  he  had  packed  away  in  his  head  all  those 
wearisome  details  and  acquired  that  confidence  that 
made  him  one  of  the  elect.  He  knew  every  snag 
and  bank  and  dead  tree  and  depth  in  all  those 
endless  miles  of  shifting  current,  every  cut-off  and 
crossing.  He  could  read  the  surface  of  the  water 
by  day,  he  could  smell  danger  in  the  dark.  To  the 
writer  of  these  chapters,  Horace  Bixby  said: 

"In  a  year  and  a  half  from  the  time  he  came  to 
the  river,  Sam  was  not  only  a  pilot,  but  a  good  one. 
Sam  was  a  fine  pilot,  and  in  a  day  when  piloting  on 
the  Mississippi  required  a  great  deal  more  brains 
and  skill  and  application  than  it  does  now.  There 
were  no  signal-lights  along  the  shore  in  those  days, 
and  no  search-lights  on  the  vessels;  everything  was 
blind;  and  on  a  dark,  misty  night,  in  a  river  full  of 
snags  and  shifting  sandbars  and  changing  shores, 
92 


WRECK  OF  THE  "PENNSYLVANIA" 

a  pilot's  judgment  had  to  be  founded  on  absolute 
certainty." 

Bixby  had  returned  from  the  Missouri  by  the 
time  his  pupil's  license  was  issued,  and  promptly 
took  him  as  full  partner  on  the  Crescent  City,  and 
later  on  a  fine  new  boat,  the  New  Falls  City.  Still 
later,  they  appear  to  have  been  together  on  a  very 
large  boat,  the  City  of  Memphis,  and  again  on  the 
Alonzo  Child. 


XVI 

THE   PILOT 

FOR  Samuel  Clemens  these  were  happy  days — the 
happiest,  in  some  respects,  he  would  ever  know. 
He  had  plenty  of  money  now.  He  could  help  his 
mother  with  a  liberal  hand,  and  could  put  away 
fully  a  hundred  dollars  a  month  for  himself.  He 
had  few  cares,  and  he  loved  the  ease  and  romance 
and  independence  of  his  work  as  he  would  never 
quite  love  anything  again. 

His  popularity  on  the  river  was  very  great.  His 
humorous  stories  and  quaint  speech  made  a  crowd 
collect  wherever  he  appeared.  There  were  pilot- 
association  rooms  in  St.  Louis  and  New  Orleans,  and 
his  appearance  at  one  of  these  places  was  a  signal 
for  the  members  to  gather. 

A  friend  of  those  days  writes:  "He  was  much 
given  to  spinning  yarns  so  funny  that  his  hearers 
were  convulsed,  and  yet  all  the  time  his  own  face 
was  perfectly  sober.  Occasionally  some  of  his  droll 
yarns  got  into  the  papers.  He  may  have  written 
them  himself." 

Another  old  river-man  remembers  how,  one  day, 
at  the  association,  they  were  talking  of  presence  of 
mind  in  an  accident,  when  Pilot  Clemens  said: 
94 


THE    PILOT 

"Boys,  I  had  great  presence  of  mind  once.  It 
was  at  a  fire.  An  old  man  leaned  out  of  a  four- 
story  building,  calling  for  help.  Everybody  in  the 
crowd  below  looked  up,  but  nobody  did  anything. 
The  ladders  weren't  long  enough.  Nobody  had  any 
presence  of  mind — nobody  but  me.  I  came  to  the 
rescue.  I  yelled  for  a  rope.  When  it  came  I  threw 
the  old  man  the  end  of  it.  He  caught  it,  and  I  told 
him  to  tie  it  around  his  waist.  He  did  so,  and  I 
pulled  him  down." 

This  was  a  story  that  found  its  way  into  print, 
probably  his  own  contribution. 

"Sam  was  always  scribbling  when  not  at  the 
wheel,"  said  Bixby,  "but  the  best  thing  he  ever  did 
was  the  burlesque  of  old  Isaiah  Sellers.  He  didn't 
write  it  for  print,  but  only  for  his  own  amusement 
and  to  show  to  a  few  of  the  boys.  Bart  Bowen,  who 
was  with  him  on  the  Edward  J.  Gay  at  the  time, 
got  hold  of  it,  and  gave  it  to  one  of  the  New  Orleans 
papers." 

The  burlesque  on  Captain  Sellers  would  be  of  little 
importance  if  it  were  not  for  its  association  with  the 
origin,  or,  at  least,  with  the  originator,  of  what  is 
probably  the  best  known  of  literary  names — the 
name  Mark  Twain. 

This  strong,  happy  title — a  river  term  indicating 
a  depth  of  two  fathoms  on  the  sounding-line — was 
first  used  by  the  old  pilot,  Isaiah  Sellers,  who  was  a 
sort  of  "oldest  inhabitant"  of  the  river,  with  a 
passion  for  airing  his  ancient  knowledge  before  the 
younger  men.  Sellers  used  to  send  paragraphs  to 
the  papers,  quaint  and  rather  egotistical  in  tone, 
95 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

usually  beginning,  "My  opinion  for  the  citizens  of 
New  Orleans,"  etc.,  prophesying  river  conditions  and 
recalling  memories  as  far  back  as  1811.  These  he 
generally  signed  "Mark  Twain." 

Naturally,  the  younger  pilots  amused  themselves 
by  imitating  Sellers,  and  when  Sam  Clemens  wrote 
a  broad  burlesque  of  the  old  man's  contributions, 
relating  a  perfectly  impossible  trip,  supposed  to 
have  been  made  in  1763  with  a  Chinese  captain  and 
a  Choctaw  crew,  it  was  regarded  as  a  masterpiece 
of  wit. 

It  appeared  in  the  True  Delta  in  May,  1859,  and 
broke  Captain  Sellers's  literary  heart.  He  never 
wrote  another  paragraph.  Clemens  always  regretted 
the  whole  matter  deeply,  and  his  own  revival  of  the 
name  afterward  was  a  sort  of  tribute  to  the  old  man 
he  had  thoughtlessly  and  unintentionally  wounded. 

Old  pilots  of  that  day  remembered  Samuel  Clem- 
ens as  a  slender,  fine-looking  man,  well  dressed,  even 
dandified,  generally  wearing  blue  serge,  with  fancy 
shirts,  white  duck  trousers,  and  patent-leather  shoes. 
A  pilot  could  do  that,  for  his  surroundings  were 
speckless. 

The  pilots  regarded  him  as  a  great  reader — a 
student  of  history,  travels,  and  the  sciences.  In 
the  association  rooms  they  often  saw  him  poring 
over  serious  books.  He  began  the  study  of  French 
one  day  in  New  Orleans,  when  he  had  passed  a  school 
of  languages  where  French,  German,  and  Italian 
were  taught,  one  in  each  of  three  rooms.  The  price 
was  twenty-five  dollars  for  one  language,  or  three 
for  fifty.  The  student  was  provided  with  a  set  of 
96 


THE    PILOT 

conversation  cards  for  each,  and  was  supposed  to 
walk  from  one  apartment  to  another,  changing  his 
nationality  at  each  threshold.  The  young  pilot, 
with  his  usual  enthusiasm,  invested  in  all  three 
languages,  but  after  a  few  round  trips  decided  that 
French  would  do.  He  did  not  return  to  the  school, 
but  kept  the  cards  and  added  text-books.  He 
studied  faithfully  when  off  watch  and  in  port,  and 
his  old  river  note-book,  still  preserved,  contains  a 
number  of  advanced  exercises,  neatly  written  out. 

Still  more  interesting  are  the  river  notes  them- 
selves. They  are  not  the  timid,  hesitating  memo- 
randa of  the  "little  book"  which,  by  Bixby's  advice, 
he  bought  for  his  first  trip.  They  are  quick,  vigorous 
records  that  show  confidence  and  knowledge.  Un- 
der the  head  of  "Second  high- water  trip — Jan.,  1861 
— Alonzo  Child,"  the  notes  tell  the  story  of  a  rising 
river,  with  overflowing  banks,  blind  passages,  and 
cut-offs — a  new  river,  in  fact,  that  must  be  judged 
by  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  old — guessed,  but 
guessed  right. 

Good  deal  of  water  all  over  Cole's  Creek  Chute,  12 
or  15  ft.  bank — could  have  gone  up  above  General  Tay- 
lor's— too  much  drift.  .  .  . 

Night — didn't  run  either  77  or  76  towheads — 8-ft.  bank 
on  main  shore  Ozark  chute. 

To  the  reader  to-day  it  means  little  enough,  but 

one  may  imagine,  perhaps,  a  mile-wide  sweep  of 

boiling  water,  full  of  drift,  shifting  currents  with 

newly  forming  bars,  and  a  lone  figure  in  the  dark 

97 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

pilot-house,  peering  into  the  night  for  blind  and 
disappearing  landmarks. 

But  such  nights  were  not  all  there  was  of  piloting. 
There  were  glorious  nights  when  the  stars  were 
blazing  out,  and  the  moon  was  on  the  water,  and 
the  young  pilot  could  follow  a  clear  channel  and 
dream  long  dreams.  He  was  very  serious  at  such 
times — he  reviewed  the  world's  history  he  had  read, 
he  speculated  on  the  future,  he  considered  philos- 
ophies, he  lost  himself  in  a  study  of  the  stars.  Mark 
Twain's  love  of  astronomy,  which  never  waned  until 
his  last  day,  began  with  those  lonely  river  watches. 
Once  a  great  comet  blazed  in  the  sky,  a  "wonderful 
sheaf  of  light,"  and  glorified  his  long  hours  at  the 
wheel. 

Samuel  Clemens  was  now  twenty-five,  full  of 
health  and  strong  in  his  courage.  In  the  old  note- 
book there  remains  a  well-worn  clipping,  the  words 
of  some  unknown  writer,  which  he  may  have  kept  as 
a  sort  of  creed: 

How  TO  TAKE  LIFE. — Take  it  just  as  though  it  was — 
as  it  is — an  earnest,  vital,  and  important  affair.  Take  it 
as  though  you  were  born  to  the  task  of  performing  a 
merry  part  in  it — as  though  the  world  had  awaited  for  your 
coming.  Take  it  as  though  it  was  a  grand  opportunity  to 
do  and  achieve,  to  carry  forward  great  and  good  schemes 
to  help  and  cheer  a  suffering,  weary,  it  may  be  heart- 
broken, brother.  Now  and  then  a  man  stands  aside  from 
the  crowd,  labors  earnestly,  steadfastly,  confidently,  and 
straightway  becomes  famous  for  wisdom,  intellect,  skill, 
greatness  of  some  sort.  The  world  wonders,  admires, 
idolizes,  and  it  only  illustrates  what  others  may  do  if 
98 


THE    PILOT 

they  take  hold  of  life  with  a  purpose.  The  miracle,  or 
the  power  that  elevates  the  few,  is  to  be  found  in  their 
industry,  application,  and  perseverance  under  the  prompt- 
ings of  a  brave,  determined  spirit. 

Bixby  and  Clemens  were  together  that  winter  on 
the  Child,  and  were  the  closest  friends.  Once  the 
young  pilot  invited  his  mother  to  make  the  trip  to 
New  Orleans,  and  the  river  journey  and  a  long 
drive  about  the  beautiful  Southern  city  filled  Jane 
Clemens  with  wonder  and  delight.  She  no  longer 
had  any  doubts  of  Sajn.  He  had  long  since  become 
the  head  of  the  family.  She  felt  called  upon  to 
lecture  him,  now  and  then,  but  down  in  her  heart 
she  believed  that  he  could  really  do  no  wrong.  They 
joked  each  other  unmercifully,  and  her  wit,  never  at 
a  loss,  was  quite  as  keen  as  his. 


• 


XVII 

THE   END   OF   PILOTING 

WHEN  one  remembers  how  much  Samuel 
Clemens  loved  the  river,  and  how  perfectly 
he  seemed  suited  to  the  ease  and  romance  of  the 
pilot  life,  one  is  almost  tempted  to  regret  that  it 
should  so  soon  have  come  to  an  end. 

Those  trips  of  early  '61,  which  the  old  note-book 
records,  were  the  last  he  would  ever  make.  The 
golden  days  of  Mississippi  steamboating  were 
growing  few. 

Nobody,  however,  seemed  to  suspect  it.  Even  a 
celebrated  fortune-teller  in  New  Orleans,  whom  the 
young  pilot  one  day  consulted  as  to  his  future,  did 
not  mention  the  great  upheaval  then  close  at  hand. 
She  told  him  quite  remarkable  things,  and  gave 
him  some  excellent  advice,  but  though  this  was 
February,  1861,  she  failed  to  make  any  mention  of 
the  Civil  War!  Yet,  a  month  later,  Abraham  Lin- 
coln was  inaugurated  and  trouble  was  in  the  air. 
Then  in  April  Fort  Sumter  was  fired  upon  and  the 
war  had  come. 

It  was  a  feverish  time  among  the  pilots.  Some 
were  for  the  Union — others  would  go  with  the  Con- 


THE   END   OF   PILOTING 

federacy.  Horace  Bixby  stood  for  the  North,  and 
in  time  was  chief  of  the  Union  river-service.  A 
pilot  named  Montgomery  (Clemens  had  once  steered 
for  him)  went  with  the  South  and  by  and  by  com- 
manded the  Confederate  Mississippi  fleet.  In  the 
beginning  a  good  many  were  not  clear  as  to  their 
opinions.  Living  both  North  and  South,  as  they 
did,  they  divided  their  sympathies.  Samuel  Clemens 
was  thoughtful,  and  far  from  bloodthirsty.  A  pilot- 
house, so  fine  and  showy  in  times  of  peace,  seemed 
a  poor  place  to  be  in  when  fighting  was  going  on. 
He  would  consider  the  matter. 

' '  I  am  not  anxious  to  get  up  into  a  glass  perch  and 
be  shot  at  by  either  side,"  he  said.  "I'll  go  home 
and  reflect." 

He  went  up  the  river  as  a  passenger  on  a  steamer 
named  the  Uncle  Sam.  Zeb  Leavenworth,  formerly 
of  the  John  J.  Roe,  was  one  of  the  pilots,  and  Clemens 
usually  stood  the  watch  with  him.  At  Memphis 
they  barely  escaped  the  blockade.  At  Cairo  they 
saw  soldiers  drilling — troops  later  commanded  by 
Grant. 

The  Uncle  Sam  came  steaming  up  to  St.  Louis, 
glad  to  have  slipped  through  safely.  They  were  not 
quite  through,  however.  Abreast  of  Jefferson  Bar- 
racks they  heard  the  boom  of  a  cannon,  and  a  great 
ring  of  smoke  drifted  in  their  direction.  They  did 
not  recognize  it  as  a  thunderous  "Halt!"  and  kept 
on.  Less  than  a  minute  later,  a  shell  exploded 
directly  in  front  of  the  pilot-house,  breaking  a  lot 
of  glass  and  damaging  the  decoration.  Zeb  Leav- 
enworth tumbled  into  a  corner. 
8  101 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

"Gee-mighty,  Sam!"  he  said.  "What  do  they 
mean  by  that?" 

Clemens  stepped  from  the  visitors'  bench  to  the 
wheel  and  brought  the  boat  around. 

"I  guess — they  want  us — to  wait  a  minute — Zeb," 
he  said. 

They  were  examined  and  passed.  It  was  the  last 
steamboat  to  make  the  trip  through  from  New 
Orleans  to  St.  Louis.  Mark  Twain's  pilot  days  were 
over.  He  would  have  grieved  had  he  known  this  fact. 

"I  loved  the  profession  far  better  than  any  I  have 
followed  since,"  he  long  afterward  declared,  "and  I 
took  a  measureless  pride  in  it." 

At  the  time,  like  many  others,  he  expected  the 
war  to  be  brief,  and  his  life  to  be  only  temporarily 
interrupted.  Within  a  year,  certainly,  he  would  be 
back  in  the  pilot-house.  Meantime  the  war  must 
be  settled;  he  would  go  up  to  Hannibal  to  see 
about  it. 


XVIII 

THE   SOLDIER 

WHEN  he  reached  Hannibal,  Samuel  Clemens 
found  a  very  mixed  condition  of  affairs.  The 
country  was  in  an  uproar  of  war  preparation;  in  a 
border  State  there  was  a  confusion  of  sympathies, 
with  much  ignorance  as  to  what  it  was  all  about. 
Any  number  of  young  men  were  eager  to  enlist  for 
a  brief  camping-out  expedition,  and  small  private 
companies  were  formed,  composed  about  half-and- 
half  of  Union  and  Confederate  men,  as  it  turned  out 
later. 

Missouri,  meantime,  had  allied  herself  with  the 
South,  and  Samuel  Clemens,  on  his  arrival  in  Hanni- 
bal, decided  that,  like  Lee,  he  would  go  with  his 
State.  Old  friends,  who  were  getting  up  a  company 
' '  to  help  Governor  'Claib'  Jackson  repel  the  invader," 
offered  him  a  lieutenancy  if  he  would  join.  It  was 
not  a  big  company;  it  had  only  about  a  dozen  mem- 
bers, most  of  whom  had  been  schoolmates,  some  of 
them  fellow-pilots,  and  Sam  Clemens  was  needed  to 
make  it  complete.  It  was  just  another  Tom  Sawyer 
band,  and  they  met  in  a  secret  place  above  Bear 
Creek  Hill  and  planned  how  they  would  sell  their 
103 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

lives  on  the  field  of  glory,  just  as  years  before  fierce 
raids  had  been  arranged  on  peach-orchards  and 
melon-patches.  Secrecy  was  necessary,  for  the  Union 
militia  had  a  habit  of  coming  over  from  Illinois  and 
arresting  suspicious  armies  on  sight.  It  would  hu- 
miliate the  finest  army  in  the  world  to  spend  a 
night  or  two  in  the  calaboose. 

So  they  met  secretly  at  night,  and  one  mysteri- 
ous evening  they  called  on  girls  who  either  were 
their  sweethearts  or  were  pretending  to  be  for  the 
occasion,  and  when  the  time  came  for  good-by  the 
girls  were  invited  to  "walk  through  the  pickets" 
with  them,  though  the  girls  didn't  notice  any  pickets, 
because  the  pickets  were  calling  on  their  girls,  too, 
and  were  a  little  late  getting  to  their  posts. 

That  night  they  marched,  through  brush  and 
vines,  because  the  highroad  was  thought  to  be  dan- 
gerous, and  next  morning  arrived  at  the  home  of 
Colonel  Rails,  of  Rails  County,  who  had  the  army 
form  in  dress  parade  and  made  it  a  speech  and  gave 
it  a  hot  breakfast  in  good  Southern  style.  Then  he 
sent  out  to  Col.  Bill  Splawn  and  Farmer  Nuck 
Matson  a  requisition  for  supplies  that  would  convert 
this  body  of  infantry  into  cavalry — rough-riders  of 
that  early  day.  The  community  did  not  wish  to 
keep  an  army  on  its  hands,  and  were  willing  to  send 
it  along  by  such  means  as  they  could  spare  handily. 
When  the  outfitting  was  complete,  Lieutenant  Sam- 
uel Clemens,  mounted  on  a  small  yellow  mule  whose 
tail  had  been  trimmed  in  the  paint-brush  pattern 
then  much  worn  by  mules,  and  surrounded  by  vari- 
ously attached  articles — such  as  an  extra  pair  of 
104 


THE   SOLDIER 

cowhide  boots,  a  pair  of  gray  blankets,  a  home-made 
quilt,  a  frying-pan,  a  carpet-sack,  a  small  valise,  an 
overcoat,  an  old-fashioned  Kentucky  rifle,  twenty 
yards  of  rope,  and  an  umbrella — was  a  fair  sample 
of  the  brigade. 

An  army  like  that,  to  enjoy  itself,  ought  to  go  into 
camp;  so  it  went  over  to  Salt  River,  near  the  town 
of  Florida,  and  took  up  headquarters  in  a  big  log 
stable.  Somebody  suggested  that  an  army  ought  to 
have  its  hair  cut,  so  that  in  a  hand-to-hand  conflict 
the  enemy  could  not  get  hold  of  it.  There  was  a 
pair  of  sheep-shears  in  the  stable,  and  Private  Tom 
Lyons  acted  as  barber.  They  were  not  sharp  shears, 
and  a  group  of  little  darkies  gathered  from  the  farm 
to  enjoy  the  torture. 

Regular  elections  were  now  held — all  officers,  down 
to  sergeants  and  orderlies,  being  officially  chosen. 
There  were  only  three  privates,  and  you  couldn't 
tell  them  from  officers.  The  discipline  in  that  army 
was  very  bad. 

It  became  worse  soon.  Pouring  rain  set  in.  Salt 
River  rose  and  overflowed  the  bottoms.  Men  or- 
dered on  picket  duty  climbed  up  into  the  stable-loft 
and  went  to  bed.  Twice,  on  black,  drenching  nights, 
word  came  from  the  farm-house  that  the  enemy, 
commanded  by  a  certain  Col.  Ulysses  Grant,  was  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  the  Hannibal  division  went 
hastily  slopping  through  mud  and  brush  in  the  other 
direction,  dragging  wearily  back  when  the  alarm 
was  over.  Military  ardor  was  bound  to  cool  under 
such  treatment.  Then  Lieutenant  Clemens  de- 
veloped a  very  severe  boil,  and  was  obliged  to  lie 
105 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

most  of  the  day  on  some  hay  in  a  horse-trough, 
where  he  spent  his  time  denouncing  the  war  and  the 
mistaken  souls  who  had  invented  it.  When  word  that 
"General"  Tom  Harris,  commander  of  the  district — 
formerly  telegraph-operator  in  Hannibal — was  at  a 
near-by  farm-house,  living  on  the  fat  of  the  land, 
the  army  broke  camp  without  further  ceremony. 
Half-way  there  they  met  General  Harris,  who  or- 
dered them  back  to  quarters.  They  called  him 
familiarly  "Tom,"  and  told  him  they  were  through 
with  that  camp  forever.  He  begged  them,  but  it 
was  no  use.  A  little  farther  on  they  stopped  at  a 
farm-house  for  supplies.  A  tall,  bony  woman  came 
to  the  door. 

"You're  Secesh,  ain't  you?" 

Lieutenant  Clemens  said:  "We  are,  madam,  de- 
fenders of  the  noble  cause,  and  we  should  like  to 
buy  a  few  provisions." 

The  request  seemed  to  inflame  her. 

"Provisions!"  she  screamed.  "Provisions  for  Se- 
cesh, and  my  husband  a  colonel  in  the  Union  Army. 
You  get  out  of  here!" 

She  reached  for  a  hickory  hoop-pole l  that  stood  by 
the  door,  and  the  army  moved  on.  When  they  reach- 
ed the  home  of  Col.  Bill  Splawn  it  was  night  and  the 
family  had  gone  to  bed.  So  the  hungry  army  camped 
in  the  barn-yard  and  crept  into  the  hay-loft  to  sleep. 
Presently  somebody  yelled  "Fire!"  One  of  the  boys 
had  been  smoking  and  had  ignited  the  hay. 

1  In  an  earlier  day,  barrel  hoops  were  made  of  small  hickory  trees, 
split  and  shaved.    The  hoop-pole  was  a  very  familiar  article  of 
commerce,  and  of  household  defense. 
106 


THE    SOLDIER 

Lieutenant  Clemens,  suddenly  wakened,  made  a 
quick  rotary  movement  away  from  the  blaze,  and 
rolled  out  of  a  big  hay-window  into  the  barn-yard 
below.  The  rest  of  the  brigade  seized  the  burning 
hay  and  pitched  it  out  of  the  same  window.  The 
lieutenant  had  sprained  his  ankle  when  he  struck, 
and  his  boil  was  still  painful,  but  the  burning  hay 
cured  him — for  the  moment.  He  made  a  spring 
from  under  it;  then,  noticing  that  the  rest  of  the 
army,  now  that  the  fire  was  out,  seemed  to  think  his 
performance  amusing,  he  rose  up  and  expressed  him- 
self concerning  the  war,  and  military  life,  and  the 
human  race  in  general.  They  helped  him  in,  then, 
for  his  ankle  was  swelling  badly. 

In  the  morning,  Colonel  Splawn  gave  the  army  a 
good  breakfast,  and  it  moved  on.  Lieutenant  Clem- 
ens, however,  did  not  get  farther  than  Farmer  Nuck 
Matson's.  He  was  in  a  high  fever  by  that  time  from 
his  injured  ankle,  and  Mrs.  Matson  put  him  to  bed. 
So  the  army  left  him,  and  presently  disbanded. 
Some  enlisted  in  the  regular  service,  North  or  South, 
according  to  preference.  Properly  officered  and 
disciplined,  that  Tom  Sawyer  band  would  have  made 
as  good  soldiers  as  any. 

Lieutenant  Clemens  did  not  enlist  again.  When 
he  was  able  to  walk,  he  went  to  visit  Orion  in  Keo- 
kuk.  Orion  was  a  Union  Abolitionist,  but  there 
would  be  no  unpleasantness  on  that  account.  Sam- 
uel Clemens  was  beginning  to  have  leanings  in  that 
direction  himself. 


XIX 

THE   PIONEER 

HE  arrived  in  Keokuk  at  what  seemed  a  lucky 
moment.  Through  Edward  Bates,  a  mem- 
ber of  Lincoln's  Cabinet,  Orion  Clemens  had  re- 
ceived an  appointment  as  territorial  secretary  of 
Nevada,  and  only  needed  the  money  to  carry  him 
to  the  seat  of  his  office  at  Carson  City.  Out  of  his 
pilot's  salary  his  brother  had  saved  more  than 
enough  for  the  journey,  and  was  willing  to  pay  both 
their  fares  and  go  along  as  private  secretary  to 
Orion,  whose  position  promised  something  in  the 
way  of  adventure  and  a  possible  opportunity  for 
making  a  fortune. 

The  brothers  went  at  once  to  St.  Louis  for  final 
leave-taking,  and  there  took  boat  for  "St.  Jo," 
Missouri,  terminus  of  the  great  Overland  Stage 
Route.  They  paid  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
each  for  their  passage,  and  about  the  end  of  July, 
1 86 1,  set  out  on  that  long,  delightful  trip,  behind 
sixteen  galloping  horses,  never  stopping  except  for 
meals  or  to  change  teams,  heading  steadily  into  the 
sunset  over  the  billowy  plains  and  snow-clad  Rockies, 
covering  the  seventeen  hundred  miles  between  St. 
Jo  and  Carson  City  in  nineteen  glorious  days. 
;  108 


THE    PIONEER 

But  one  must  read  Mark  Twain's  Roughing  It  for 
the  story  of  that  long-ago  trip — the  joy  and  wonder 
of  it,  and  the  inspiration.  "Even  at  this  day,"  he 
writes,  "it  thrills  me  through  and  through  to  think 
of  the  life,  the  gladness,  and  the  wild  sense  of  free- 
dom that  used  to  make  the  blood  dance  in  my  face 
on  those  fine  overland  mornings." 

It  was  a  hot  August  day  when  they  arrived, 
dusty,  unshaven,  and  weather-beaten,  and  Samuel 
Clemens's  life  as  a  frontiersman  began.  Carson  City, 
the  capital  of  Nevada,  was  a  wooden  town  with  an 
assorted  population  of  two  thousand  souls.  The 
mining  excitement  was  at  its  height  and  had  brought 
together  the  drift  of  every  race. 

The  Clemens  brothers  took  up  lodgings  with  a 
genial  Irishwoman,  the  Mrs.  O'Flannigan  of  Rough- 
ing It,  and  Orion  established  himself  in  a  modest 
office,  for  there  was  no  capitol  building  as  yet,  no 
government  headquarters.  Orion  could  do  all  the 
work,  and  Samuel  Clemens,  finding  neither  duties 
nor  salary  attached  to  his  position,  gave  himself  up 
to  the  study  of  the  life  about  him,  and  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  freedom  of  the  frontier.  Presently  he 
had  a  following  of  friends  who  loved  his  quaint 
manner  of  speech  and  his  yarns.  On  cool  nights 
they  would  collect  about  Orion's  office-stove,  and  he 
would  tell  stories  in  the  wonderful  way  that  one  day 
would  delight  the  world.  Within  a  brief  time  Sam 
Clemens  (he  was  always  "Sam"  to  the  pioneers) 
was  the  most  notable  figure  on  the  Carson  streets. 
His  great,  bushy  head  of  auburn  hair,  his  piercing, 
twinkling  eyes,  his  loose,  lounging  walk,  his  careless 
109 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

disorder  of  dress  invited  a  second  look,  even  from 
strangers.  From  a  river  dandy  he  had  become  the 
roughest-clad  of  pioneers — rusty  slouch  hat,  flannel 
shirt,  coarse  trousers  slopping  half  in  and  half  out  of 
heavy  cowhide  boots,  this  was  his  make-up.  Ener- 
getic citizens  did  not  prophesy  success  for  him. 
Often  they  saw  him  leaning  against  an  awning  sup- 
port, staring  drowsily  at  the  motley  human  proces- 
sion, for  as  much  as  an  hour  at  a  time.  Certainly 
that  could  not  be  profitable. 

But  they  did  like  to  hear  him  talk. 

He  did  not  catch  the  mining  fever  at  once.  He 
was  interested  first  in  the  riches  that  he  could 
see.  Among  these  was  the  timber-land  around 
Lake  Bigler  (now  Tahoe)  —  splendid  acres,  to  be 
had  for  the  asking.  The  lake  itself  was  beautifully 
situated. 

With  an  Ohio  boy,  John  Kinney,  he  made  an 
excursion  afoot  to  Tahoe,  a  trip  described  in  one  of 
the  best  chapters  of  Roughing  It.  They  staked  out 
a  timber  claim  and  pretended  to  fence  it  and  to 
build  a  house,  but  their  chief  employment  was  loaf- 
ing in  the  quiet  luxury  of  the  great  woods  or  drifting 
in  a  boat  on  the  transparent  water.  They  did  not 
sleep  in  the  house.  In  Roughing  It  he  says: 

It  never  occurred  to  us,  for  one  thing;  and,  besides,  it 
was  built  to  hold  the  ground,  and  that  was  enough.  We 
did  not  wish  to  strain  it. 

They  made  their  camp-fires  on  the  borders  of  the 
lake,  and  one  evening  it  got  away  from  them,  fired 
the  forest,  and  destroyed  their  fences  and  habita- 


THE    PIONEER 

tion.    In  a  letter  home  he  describes  this  fire  in  a  fine, 
vivid  way.    At  one  place  he  says: 

The  level  ranks  of  flame  were  relieved  at  intervals  by 
the  standard-bearers,  as  we  called  the  tall  dead  trees, 
wrapped  in  fire,  and  waving  their  blazing  banners  a  hun- 
dred feet  in  the  air.  Then  we  could  turn  from  the  scene 
to  the  lake,  and  see  every  branch  and  leaf  and  cataract  of 
flame  upon  its  banks  perfectly  reflected,  as  in  a  gleaming, 
fiery  mirror. 

He  was  acquiring  the  literary  vision  and  touch. 
The  description  of  this  same  fire  in  Roughing  It, 
written  ten  years  later,  is  scarcely  more  vivid. 

Most  of  his  letters  home  at  this  time  tell  of 
glowing  prospects — the  certainty  of  fortune  ahead. 
The  fever  of  the  frontier  is  in  them.  Once,  to 
Pamela  Moffett,  he  wrote: 

Orion  and  I  have  enough  confidence  in  this  country  to 
think  that,  if  the  war  lets  us  alone,  we  can  make  Mr. 
Moffett  rich  without  its  ever  costing  him  a  cent  or  a 
particle  of  trouble. 

From  the  same  letter  we  gather  that  the  brothers 
are  now  somewhat  interested  in  mining  claims: 

We  have  about  1,650  feet  of  mining-ground,  and,  if  it 
proves  good,  Mr.  Moffett's  name  will  go  in;  and  if  not, 
I  can  get  "  feet "  for  him  in  the  spring. 

This  was  written  about  the  end  of  October.  Two 
months  later,  in  midwinter,  the  mining  fever  came 
upon  him  with  full  force. 


XX 

THE   MINER 

THE  wonder  is  that  Samuel  Clemens,  always  spec- 
ulative and  visionary,  had  not  fallen  an  earlier 
victim.  Everywhere  one  heard  stories  of  sudden 
fortune — of  men  who  had  gone  to  bed  paupers  and 
awakened  millionaires.  New  and  fabulous  finds  were 
reported  daily.  Cart-loads  of  bricks — silver  and 
gold  bricks — drove  through  the  Carson  streets. 

Then  suddenly  from  the  newly  opened  Humboldt 
region  came  the  wildest  reports.  The  mountains 
there  were  said  to  be  stuffed  with  gold.  A  corre- 
spondent of  the  Territorial  Enterprise  was  unable  to 
find  words  to  picture  the  riches  of  the  Humboldt 
mines. 

The  air  for  Samuel  Clemens  began  to  shimmer. 
Fortune  was  waiting  to  be  gathered  in  a  basket.  He 
joined  the  first  expedition  for  Humboldt — in  fact, 
helped  to  organize  it.  In  Roughing  It  he  says: 

Hurry  was  the  word!  We  wasted  no  time.  Our  party 
consisted  of  four  persons — a  blacksmith  sixty  years  of 
age,  two  young  lawyers,  and  myself.  We  bought  a  wagon 
and  two  miserable  old  horses.  We  put  eighteen  hundred 
pounds  of  provisions  and  mining-tools  in  the  wagon  and 
drove  out  of  Carson  on  a  chilly  December  afternoon. 


THE   MINER 

The  two  young  lawyers  were  W.  H.  Clagget, 
whom  Clemens  had  known  in  Keokuk,  and  A.  W. 
Oliver,  called  Oliphant  in  Roughing  It.  The  black- 
smith was  named  Tillou  (Ballou  in  Roughing  It),  a 
sturdy,  honest  man  with  a  knowledge  of  mining  and 
the  repair  of  tools.  There  were  also  two  dogs  in  the 
party — a  curly- tailed  mongrel  and  a  young  hound. 

The  horses  were  the  weak  feature  of  the  expe- 
dition. It  was  two  hundred  miles  to  Humboldt, 
mostly  across  sand.  The  miners  rode  only  a  little 
way,  then  got  out  to  lighten  the  load.  Later  they 
pushed.  Then  it  began  to  snow,  also  to  blow,  and 
the  air  became  filled  with  whirling  clouds  of  snow 
and  sand.  On  and  on  they  pushed  and  groaned,  sus- 
tained by  the  knowledge  that  they  must  arrive  some 
time,  when  right  away  they  would  be  millionaires 
and  all  their  troubles  would  be  over. 

The  nights  were  better.  The  wind  went  down 
and  they  made  a  camp-fire  in  the  shelter  of  the 
wagon,  cooked  their  bacon,  crept  under  blankets 
with  the  dogs  to  warm  them,  and  Sam  Clemens 
spun  yarns  till  they  fell  asleep. 

There  had  been  an  Indian  war,  and  occasionally 
they  passed  the  charred  ruin  of  a  cabin  and  new 
graves.  By  and  by  they  came  to  that  deadly  waste 
known  as  the  Alkali  Desert,  strewn  with  the  car- 
casses of  dead  beasts  and  with  the  heavy  articles 
discarded  by  emigrants  in  their  eagerness  to  reach 
water.  All  day  and  night  they  pushed  through 
that  choking,  waterless  plain  to  reach  camp  on  the 
other  side.  When  they  arrived  at  three  in  the 
morning,  they  dropped  down  exhausted.  Judge 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Oliver,  the  last  survivor  of  the  party,  in  a  letter  to 
the  writer  of  these  chapters,  said : 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when  we  were  aroused 
from  our  sleep  by  a  yelling  band  of  Piute  warriors.  We 
were  upon  our  feet  in  an  instant.  The  picture  of  burning 
cabins  and  the  lonely  graves  we  had  passed  was  in  our 
minds.  Our  scalps  were  still  our  own,  and  not  dangling 
from  the  belts  of  our  visitors.  Sam  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, put  his  hand  on  his  head,  as  if  to  make  sure  he 
had  not  been  scalped,  and,  with  his  inimitable  drawl,  said : 
"Boys,  they  have  left  us  our  scalps.  Let  us  give  them  all 
the  flour  and  sugar  they  ask  for."  And  we  did  give  them 
a  good  supply,  for  we  were  grateful. 

The  Indians  left  them  unharmed,  and  the  pros- 
pective millionaires  moved  on.  Across  that  two 
hundred  miles  to  the  Humboldt  country  they 
pushed,  arriving  at  the  little  camp  of  Unionville  at 
the  end  of  eleven  weary  days. 

In  Roughing  It  Mark  Twain  has  told  us  of  Union- 
ville and  the  mining  experience  there.  Their  cabin 
was  a  three-sided  affair  with  a  cotton  roof.  Stones 
rolled  down  the  mountainside  on  them;  also,  the 
author  says,  a  mule  and  a  cow. 

The  author  could  not  gather  fortune  in  a  basket, 
as  he  had  dreamed.  Masses  of  gold  and  silver  were 
not  lying  about.  He  gathered  a  back-load  of  yellow, 
glittering  specimens,  but  they  proved  worthless. 
Gold  in  the  rough  did  not  glitter,  and  was  not  yellow. 
Tillou  instructed  the  others  in  prospecting,  and  they 
went  to  work  with  pick  and  shovel — then  with  drill 
and  blasting-powder.  The  prospect  of  immediately 
becoming  millionaires  vanished. 
114 


THE   MINER 

"One  week  of  this  satisfied  me.  I  resigned,"  is 
Mark  Twain's  brief  comment. 

The  Humboldt  reports  had  been  exaggerated. 
The  Clemens-Clagget-Oliver-Tillou  millionaire  com- 
bination soon  surrendered  its  claims.  Clemens  and 
Tillou  set  out  for  Carson  City  with  a  Prussian  named 
Pfersdorff,  who  nearly  got  them  drowned  and  got 
them  completely  lost  in  the  snow  before  they  ar- 
rived there.  Oliver  and  Clagget  remained  in  Union- 
ville,  began  law  practice,  and  were  elected  to  office. 
It  is  not  known  what  became  of  the  wagon  and  horses 
and  the  two  dogs. 

It  was  the  end  of  January  when  our  miner 
returned  to  Carson.  He  was  not  discouraged — 
far  from  it.  He  believed  he  had  learned  some- 
thing that  would  be  useful  to  him  in  a  camp 
where  mines  were  a  reality.  Within  a  few  weeks 
from  his  return  we  find  him  at  Aurora,  in  the 
Esmeralda  region,  on  the  edge  of  California.  It 
was  here  that  the  Clemens  brothers  owned  the 
1,650  feet  formerly  mentioned.  He  had  come 
down  to  work  it. 

It  was  the  dead  of  winter,  but  he  was  full  of  enthu- 
siasm, confident  of  a  fortune  by  early  summer.  To 
Pamela  he  wrote : 

I  expect  to  return  to  St.  Louis  in  July — per  steamer. 
I  don't  say  that  I  will  return  then,  or  that  I  shall  be  able 
to  do  it — but  I  expect  to — you  bet.  ...  If  nothing  goes 
wrong,  we'll  strike  the  ledge  in  June. 

He  was  trying  to  be  conservative,  and  further 
along  he  cautions  his  sister  not  to  get  excited. 
"5 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Don't  you  know  I  have  only  talked  as  yet,  but  proved 
nothing?  Don't  you  know  I  have  never  held  in  my  hands 
a  gold  or  silver  bar  that  belonged  to  me?  Don't  you 
know  that  people  who  always  feel  jolly,  no  matter  where 
they  are  or  what  happens  to  them — who  have  the  organ 
of  hope  preposterously  developed — who  are  endowed  with 
an  uncongealable,  sanguine  temperament — who  never 
feel  concerned  about  the  price  of  corn — and  who  cannot, 
by  any  possibility,  discover  any  but  the  bright  side  of  a 
picture — are  very  apt  to  go  to  extremes  and  exaggerate 
with  a  4o-horse  microscopic  power? 

But— but— 

In  the  bright  lexicon  of  youth, 
There  is  no  such  word  as  fail, 

and  I'll  prove  it. 

Whereupon  he  soars  again,  adding  page  after  page 
full  of  glowing  expectations  and  plans  such  as  belong 
only  with  speculation  in  treasures  buried  in  the 
ground — a  very  difficult  place,  indeed,  to  find  them. 

His  money  was  about  exhausted  by  this  time,  and 
funds  to  work  the  mining  claims  must  come  out  of 
Orion's  rather  modest  salary.  The  brothers  owned 
all  claims  in  partnership,  and  it  was  now  the  part 
of  "Brother  Sam"  to  do  the  active  work.  He 
hated  the  hard  picking  and  prying  and  blasting  into 
the  flinty  ledges,  but  the  fever  drove  him  on.  He 
camped  with  a  young  man  named  Phillips  at  first, 
and,  later  on,  with  an  experienced  miner,  Calvin  H. 
Higbie,  to  whom  Roughing  It  would,  one  day  be 
dedicated.  They  lived  in  a  tiny  cabin  with  a  cotton 
roof,  and  around  their  rusty  stove  they  would  paw 
116 


MARK   TWAIN    AND    "  CAL  "    HIGBIE   IN   THEIR    ESMERALDA   CABIN 


THE   MINER 

over  their  specimens  and  figure  the  fortune  that 
their  mines  would  be  worth  in  the  spring. 

Food  ran  low,  money  gave  out  almost  entirely, 
but  they  did  not  give  up.  When  it  was  stormy  and 
they  could  not  dig,  and  the  ex-pilot  was  in  a  talk- 
ative vein,  he  would  sit  astride  the  bunk  and  dis- 
tribute to  his  hearers  riches  more  valuable  than  any 
they  would  dig  from  the  Esmeralda  hills.  At  other 
times  he  did  not  talk  at  all,  but  sat  in  a  corner  and 
wrote.  They  thought  he  was  writing  home;  they 
did  not  know  that  he  was  "literary."  Some  of  his 
home  letters  had  found  their  way  into  a  Keokuk 
paper  and  had  come  back  to  Orion,  who  had  shown 
them  to  an  assistant  on  the  Territorial  Enterprise,  of 
Virginia  City.  The  Enterprise  man  had  caused  one 
of  them  to  be  reprinted,  and  this  had  encouraged 
its  author  to  send  something  to  the  paper  direct. 
He  signed  these  contributions  "Josh,"  and  one  told  of 

An  old,  old  horse  whose  name  was  Methusalem, 
Took  him  down  and  sold  him  in  Jerusalem, 
A  long  time  ago. 

He  received  no  pay  for  these  offerings  and  ex- 
pected none.  He  considered  them  of  no  value.  If 
any  one  had  told  him  that  he  was  knocking  at  the 
door  of  the  house  of  fame,  however  feebly,  he  would 
have  doubted  that  person's  judgment  or  sincerity. 

His  letters  to  Orion,  in  Carson  City,  were  hasty 
compositions,  reporting  progress  and  progress,  or 
calling  for  remittances  to  keep  the  work  going.  On 
April  13,  he  wrote: 

9  "7 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Work  not  begun  on  the  Horatio  and  Derby — haven't 
seen  it  yet.  It  is  still  in  the  snow.  Shall  begin  on  it 
within  three  or  four  weeks — strike  the  ledge  in  July. 

Again,  later  in  the  month: 

I  have  been  at  work  all  day,  blasting  and  digging  in 
one  of  our  new  claims,  "Dashaway,"  which  I  don't 
think  a  great  deal  of,  but  which  I  am  willing  to  try.  We 
are  down  now  ten  or  twelve  feet. 

It  must  have  been  disheartening  work,  picking 
away  at  the  flinty  ledges.  There  is  no  further  men- 
tion of  the  "Dashaway,"  but  we  hear  of  the  "Fly- 
away," the  "Annipolitan,"  the  "Live  Yankee,"  and 
of  many  another,  each  of  which  holds  out  a  beacon 
of  hope  for  a  brief  moment,  then  passes  from  notice 
forever.  Still,  he  was  not  discouraged.  Once  he 
wrote : 

I  am  a  citizen  here  and  I  am  satisfied,  though  'Ratio 
and  I  are  "strapped"  and  we  haven't  three  days'  rations 
in  the  house.  I  shall  work  the  "Monitor"  and  the  other 
claims  with  my  own  hands. 

"The  pick  and  shovel  are  the  only  claims  I  have 
confidence  in  now,"  he  wrote,  later;  "my  back  is 
sore  and  my  hands  are  blistered  with  handling  them 
to-day." 

His  letters  began  to  take  on  a  weary  tone.  Once 
in  midsummer  he  wrote  that  it  was  still  snowing  up 
there  in  the  hills,  and  added,  "It  always  snows  here 
I  expect.  If  we  strike  it  rich,  I've  lost  my  guess, 
that's  all."  And  the  final  heartsick  line,  "Don't  you 
118 


THE   MINER 

suppose  they  have  pretty  much  quit  writing  at 
home?" 

In  time  he  went  to  work  in  a  quartz-mill  at  ten 
dollars  a  week,  though  it  was  not  entirely  for  the 
money,  as  in  Roughing  It  he  would  have  us  believe. 
Samuel  Clemens  learned  thoroughly  what  he  under- 
took, and  he  proposed  to  master  the  science  of 
mining.  From  Phillips  and  Higbie  he  had  learned 
what  there  was  to  know  about  prospecting.  He 
went  to  the  mill  to  learn  refining,  so  that,  when  his 
claims  developed,  he  could  establish  a  mill  and  per- 
sonally superintend  the  work.  His  stay  was  brief. 
He  contracted  a  severe  cold  and  came  near  getting 
poisoned  by  the  chemicals.  Recovering,  he  went 
with  Higbie  for  an  outing  to  Mono  Lake,  a  ghastly, 
lifeless  alkali  sea  among  the  hills,  vividly  described 
in  Roughing  It. 

At  another  time  he  went  with  Higbie  on  a  walk- 
ing trip  to  the  Yosemite,  where  they  camped  and 
fished  undisturbed,  for  in  those  days  few  human 
beings  came  to  that  far  isolation.  Discouragement 
did  not  reach  them  there — amid  that  vast  grandeur 
and  quiet  the  quest  for  gold  hardly  seemed  worth 
while.  Now  and  again  that  summer  he  went  alone 
into  the  wilderness  to  find  his  balance  and  to  get 
entirely  away  from  humankind. 

In  Roughing  It  Mark  Twain  tells  the  story  of  how 
he  and  Higbie  finally  located  a  "blind  lead,"  which 
made  them  really  millionaires,  until  they  forfeited 
their  claim  through  the  sharp  practice  of  some  rival 
miners  and  their  own  neglect.  It  is  true  that  the 
"Wide  West"  claim  was  forfeited  in  some  such 
119 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

manner,  but  the  size  of  the  loss  was  magnified  in 
Roughing  It,  to  make  a  good  story.  There  was  never 
a  fortune  in  "Wide  West,"  except  the  one  sunk  in  it 
by  its  final  owners.  The  story  as  told  in  Roughing 
It  is  a  tale  of  what  might  have  happened,  and  ends 
the  author's  days  in  the  mines  with  a  good  story- 
book touch. 

The  mining  career  of  Samuel  Clemens  really  came 
to  a  close  gradually,  and  with  no  showy  climax.  He 
fought  hard  and  surrendered  little  by  little,  without 
owning,  even  to  the  end,  that  he  was  surrendering 
at  all.  It  was  the  gift  of  resolution  that  all  his  life 
would  make  his  defeats  long  and  costly — his  vic- 
tories supreme. 

By  the  end  of  July  the  money  situation  in  the 
Aurora  camp  was  getting  desperate.  Orion's  de- 
pleted salary  would  no  longer  pay  for  food,  tools, 
and  blasting-powder,  and  the  miner  began  to  cast 
about  for  means  to  earn  an  additional  sum,  however 
small.  The  "Josh"  letters  to  the  Enterprise  had 
awakened  interest  as  to  their  author,  and  Orion  had 
not  failed  to  let  "Josh's"  identity  be  known.  The 
result  had  been  that  here  and  there  a  coast  paper 
had  invited  contributions  and  even  suggested  pay- 
ment. A  letter  written  by  the  Aurora  miner  at  the 
end  of  July  tells  this  part  of  the  story: 

My  debts  are  greater  than  I  thought  for.  .  .  .  The 
fact  is,  I  must  have  something  to  do,  and  that  shortly,  too. 
.  .  .  Now  write  to  the  Sacramento  Union  folks,  or  to  Marsh, 
and  tell  them  that  I  will  write  as  many  letters  a  week 
as  they  want,  for  $10  a  week.  My  board  must  be  paid. 


THE    MINER 

Tell  them  I  have  corresponded  with  the  New  Orleans 
Crescent  and  other  papers — and  the  Enterprise. 

If  they  want  letters  from  here — who'll  run  from  morn- 
ing till  night  collecting  material  cheaper?  I'll  write  a 
short  letter  twice  a  week,  for  the  present,  for  the  Age,  for 
$5  per  week.  Now  it  has  been  a  long  time  since  I  couldn't 
make  my  own  living,  and  it  shall  be  a  long  time  before 
I  loaf  another  year. 

This  all  led  to  nothing,  but  about  the  same  time 
the  Enterprise  assistant  already  mentioned  spoke  to 
Joseph  T.  Goodman,  owner  and  editor  of  the  paper, 
about  adding  "Josh"  to  their  regular  staff.  "Joe" 
Goodman,  a  man  of  keen  humor  and  literary  per- 
ception, agreed  that  the  author  of  the  "Josh"  letters 
might  be  useful  to  them.  One  of  the  sketches  par- 
ticularly appealed  to  him — a  burlesque  report  of  a 
Fourth  of  July  oration. 

"That  is  the  kind  of  thing  we  want,"  he  said. 
"Write  to  him,  Barstow,  and  ask  him  if  he  wants  to 
come  up  here." 

Barstow  wrote,  offering  twenty-five  dollars  a  week 
— a  tempting  sum.  This  was  at  the  end  of  July, 
1862. 

Yet  the  hard-pressed  miner  made  no  haste  to  ac- 
cept the  offer.  To  leave  Aurora  meant  the  surrender 
of  all  hope  in  the  mines,  the  confession  of  another 
failure.  He  wrote  Barstow,  asking  when  he  thought 
he  might  be  needed.  And  at  the  same  time,  in  a 
letter  to  Orion,  he  said : 

I  shall  leave  at  midnight  to-night,  alone  and  on  foot, 
for  a  walk  of  sixty  or  seventy  miles  through  a  totally  un- 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

inhabited  country.  But  do  you  write  Barstow  that  I 
have  left  here  for  a  week  or  so,  and,  in  case  he  should 
want  me,  he  must  write  me  here,  or  let  me  know  through 
you. 

He  had  gone  into  the  wilderness  to  fight  out  his 
battle  alone,  postponing  the  final  moment  of  sur- 
render— surrender  that,  had  he  known,  only  meant 
the  beginning  of  victory.  He  was  still  undecided 
when  he  returned  eight  days  later  and  wrote  to  his 
sister  Pamela  a  letter  in  which  there  is  no  mention 
of  newspaper  prospects. 

Just  how  and  when  the  end  came  at  last  cannot 
be  known;  but  one  hot,  dusty  August  afternoon,  in 
Virginia  City,  a  worn,  travel-stained  pilgrim  dragged 
himself  into  the  office  of  the  Territorial  Enterprise, 
then  in  its  new  building  on  C  Street,  and,  loosening 
a  heavy  roll  of  blankets  from  his  shoulder,  dropped 
wearily  into  a  chair.  He  wore  a  rusty  slouch  hat, 
no  coat,  a  faded  blue-flannel  shirt,  a  navy  revolver; 
his  trousers  were  tucked  into  his  boot-tops;  a  tangle 
of  reddish-brown  hair  fell  on  his  shoulders;  a  mass 
of  tawny  beard,  dingy  with  alkali  dust,  dropped 
half-way  to  his  waist. 

Aurora  lay  one  hundred  and  thirty  miles  from 
Virginia  City.  He  had  walked  that  distance,  carrying 
his  heavy  load.  Editor  Goodman  was  absent  at  the 
moment,  but  the  other  proprietor,  Dennis  E.  Mc- 
Carthy, asked  the  caller  to  state  his  errand.  The 
wanderer  regarded  him  with  a  far-away  look  and 
said,  absently,  and  with  deliberation : 

"My  starboard  leg  seems  to  be  unshipped.    I'd 


THE    MINER 

like  about  one  hundred  yards  of  line;  I  think  I'm 
falling  to  pieces."  Then  he  added:  "I  want  to  see 
Mr.  Barstow  or  Mr.  Goodman.  My  name  is  Clem- 
ens, and  I've  come  to  write  for  the  paper." 

It  was  the  master  of  the  world's  widest  estate 
come  to  claim  his  kingdom! 


XXI 

THE   TERRITORIAL   ENTERPRISE 

IN  1862  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  was  the  most 
flourishing  of  mining  towns.  A  half -crazy  miner, 
named  Comstock,  had  discovered  there  a  vein  of 
such  richness  that  the  "Comstock  Lode"  was  pres- 
ently glutting  the  mineral  markets  of  the  world. 
Comstock  himself  got  very  little  out  of  it,  but  those 
who  followed  him  made  millions.  Miners,  specu- 
lators, adventurers  swarmed  in.  Every  one  seemed 
to  have  money.  The  streets  seethed  with  an  eager, 
affluent,  boisterous  throng  whose  chief  business 
seemed  to  be  to  spend  the  wealth  that  the  earth  was 
yielding  in  such  a  mighty  stream. 

Business  of  every  kind  boomed.  Less  than  two 
years  earlier,  J.  T.  Goodman,  a  miner  who  was  also 
a  printer  and  a  man  of  literary  taste,  had  joined  with 
another  printer,  Dennis  McCarthy,  and  the  two  had 
managed  to  buy  a  struggling  Virginia  City  paper, 
the  Territorial  Enterprise.  But  then  came  the  high- 
tide  of  fortune.  A  year  later  the  Enterprise,  from  a 
starving  sheet  in  a  leaky  shanty,  had  become  a  large, 
handsome  paper  in  a  new  building,  and  of  such 
brilliant  editorial  management  that  it  was  the  most 
widely  considered  journal  on  the  Pacific  coast. 
124 


THE  TERRITORIAL   ENTERPRISE 

Goodman  was  a  fine,  forceful  writer,  and  he  sur- 
rounded himself  with  able  men.  He  was  a  young 
man,  full  of  health  and  vigor,  overflowing  with  the 
fresh  spirit  and  humor  of  the  West.  Comstockers 
would  always  laugh  at  a  joke,  and  Goodman  was 
always  willing  to  give  it  to  them.  The  Enterprise 
was  a  newspaper,  but  it  was  willing  to  furnish  enter- 
tainment even  at  the  cost  of  news.  William  Wright, 
editorially  next  to  Goodman,  was  a  humorist  of 
ability.  His  articles,  signed  Dan  de  Quille,  were 
widely  copied.  R.  M.  Daggett  (afterward  United 
States  Minister  to  Hawaii)  was  also  an  Enterprise 
man,  and  there  were  others  of  their  sort. 

Samuel  Clemens  fitted  precisely  into  this  group. 
He  brought  with  him  a  new  turn  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression; he  saw  things  with  open  eyes,  and  wrote 
of  them  in  a  fresh,  wild  way  that  Comstockers  loved. 
He  was  allowed  full  freedom.  Goodman  suppressed 
nothing;  his  men  could  write  as  they  chose.  They 
were  all  young  together — if  they  pleased  themselves, 
they  were  pretty  sure  to  please  their  readers.  Often 
they  wrote  of  one  another — squibs  and  burlesques, 
which  gratified  the  Comstock  far  more  than  mere 
news.  It  was  just  the  school  to  produce  Mark  Twain. 

The  new  arrival  found  acquaintance  easy.  The 
whole  Enterprise  force  was  like  one  family;  propri- 
etors, editor,  and  printers  were  social  equals.  Sam- 
uel Clemens  immediately  became  "Sam"  to  his 
associates,  just  as  De  Quille  was  "Dan,"  and  Good- 
man "Joe."  Clemens  was  supposed  to  report  city 
items,  and  did,  in  fact,  do  such  work,  which  he  found 
easy,  for  his  pilot-memory  made  notes  unnecessary. 
125 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

He  could  gather  items  all  day,  and  at  night  put  down 
the  day's  budget  well  enough,  at  least,  to  delight  his 
readers.  When  he  was  tired  of  facts,  he  would  write 
amusing  paragraphs,  as  often  as  not  something  about 
Dan,  or  a  reporter  on  a  rival  paper.  Dan  and  the 
others  would  reply,  and  the  Comstock  would  laugh. 
Those  were  good  old  days. 

Sometimes  he  wrote  hoaxes.  Once  he  told  with 
great  circumstance  and  detail  of  a  petrified  prehis- 
toric man  that  had  been  found  embedded  in  a  rock 
in  the  desert,  and  how  the  coroner  from  Humboldt  had 
traveled  more  than  a  hundred  miles  to  hold  an  inquest 
over  a  man  dead  for  centuries,  and  had  refused  to 
allow  miners  to  blast  the  discovery  from  its  position. 

The  sketch  was  really  intended  as  a  joke  on  the 
Humboldt  coroner,  but  it  was  so  convincingly  writ- 
ten that  most  of  the  Coast  papers  took  it  seriously 
and  reprinted  it  as  the  story  of  a  genuine  discovery. 
In  time  they  awoke,  and  began  to  inquire  as  to  who 
was  the  smart  writer  on  the  Enterprise. 

Mark  Twain  did  a  number  of  such  things,  some 
of  which  are  famous  on  the  Coast  to  this  day. 

Clemens  himself  did  not  escape.  Lamps  were  used 
in  the  Enterprise  office,  but  he  hated  the  care  of  a 
lamp,  and  worked  evenings  by  the  light  of  a  candle. 
It  was  considered  a  great  joke  in  the  office  to  "hide 
Sam's  candle"  and  hear  him  fume  and  rage,  walking 
in  a  circle  meantime — a  habit  acquired  in  the  pilot- 
house— and  scathingly  denouncing  the  culprits. 
Eventually  the  office-boy,  supposedly  innocent, 
would  bring  another  candle,  and  quiet  would  follow. 
Once  the  office  force,  including  De  Quille,  McCarthy, 
126 


THE  TERRITORIAL   ENTERPRISE 

and  a  printer  named  Stephen  Gillis,  of  whom  Clemens 
was  very  fond,  bought  a  large  imitation  meerschaum 
pipe,  had  a  German-silver  plate  set  on  it,  properly 
engraved,  and  presented  it  to  Samuel  Clemens  as 
genuine,  in  testimony  of  their  great  esteem.  His 
reply  to  the  presentation  speech  was  so  fine  and  full 
of  feeling  that  the  jokers  felt  ashamed  of  their  trick. 
A  few  days  later,  when  he  discovered  the  deception, 
he  was  ready  to  destroy  the  lot  of  them.  Then,  in 
atonement,  they  gave  him  a  real  meerschaum.  Such 
things  kept  the  Comstock  entertained. 

There  was  a  side  to  Samuel  Clemens  that,  in  those 
days,  few  of  his  associates  saw.  This  was  the  poetic, 
the  reflective  side.  Joseph  Goodman,  like  Macfar- 
lane  in  Cincinnati  several  years  earlier,  recognized 
this  phase  of  his  character  and  developed  it.  Often 
these  two,  dining  or  walking  together,  discussed  the 
books  and  history  they  had  read,  quoted  from  poems 
that  gave  them  pleasure.  Clemens  sometimes  re- 
cited with  great  power  the  "Burial  of  Moses,"  whose 
noble  phrasing  and  majestic  imagery  seemed  to  move 
him  deeply.  With  eyes  half  closed  and  chin  lifted,  a 
lighted  cigar  between  his  fingers,  he  would  lose  him- 
self in  the  music  of  the  stately  lines : 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 
And  no  man  knows  that  sepulcher, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 
127 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

That  his  own  writing  would  be  influenced  by  the 
simple  grandeur  of  this  poem  we  can  hardly  doubt. 
Indeed,  it  may  have  been  to  him  a  sort  of  literary 
touchstone,  that  in  time  would  lead  him  to  produce, 
as  has  been  said,  some  of  the  purest  English  written 
by  any  modern  author. 


XXII 

"MARK  TWAIN" 

IT  was  once  when  Goodman  and  Clemens  were 
dining  together  that  the  latter  asked  to  be  allowed 
to  report  the  proceedings  of  the  coming  legislature 
at  Carson  City.  He  knew  nothing  of  such  work, 
and  Goodman  hesitated.  Then,  remembering  that 
Clemens  would,  at  least,  make  his  reports  readable, 
whether  they  were  parliamentary  or  not,  he  con- 
sented. 

So,  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  (1863),  Samuel 
Clemens  undertook  a  new  and  interesting  course  in 
the  study  of  human  nature — the  political  human 
nature  of  the  frontier.  There  could  have  been  no 
better  school  for  him.  His  wit,  his  satire,  his  phras- 
ing had  full  swing — his  letters,  almost  from  the  be- 
ginning, were  copied  as  choice  reading  up  and  down 
the  Coast.  He  made  curious  blunders,  at  first,  as 
to  the  proceedings,  but  his  open  confession  of  igno- 
rance in  the  early  letters  made  these  blunders  their 
chief  charm.  A  young  man  named  Gillespie,  clerk 
of  the  House,  coached  him,  and  in  return  was  chris- 
tened "Young  Jefferson's  Manual,"  a  title  which  he 
bore  for  many  years. 

A  reporter  named  Rice,  on  a  rival  Virginia  City 
129 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

paper,  the  Union,  also  earned  for  himself  a  title 
through  those  early  letters. 

Rice  concluded  to  poke  fun  at  the  Enterprise  re- 
ports, pointing  out  their  mistakes.  But  this  was  not 
wise.  Clemens,  in  his  next  contribution,  admitted 
that  Rice's  reports  might  be  parliamentary  enough, 
but  declared  his  glittering  technicalities  were  only 
to  cover  misstatements  of  fact.  He  vowed  they 
were  wholly  untrustworthy,  dubbed  the  author  of 
them  "The  Unreliable,"  and  never  thereafter  re- 
ferred to  him  by  any  other  term.  Carson  and  the 
Comstock  papers  delighted  in  this  foolery,  and  Rice 
became  "The  Unreliable"  for  life.  There  was  no 
real  feeling  between  Rice  and  Clemens.  They  were 
always  the  best  of  friends. 

But  now  we  arrive  at  the  story  of  still  another 
name,  one  of  vastly  greater  importance  than  either 
of  those  mentioned,  for  it  is  the  name  chosen  by 
Samuel  Clemens  for  himself.  In  those  days  it  was  the 
fashion  for  a  writer  to  have  a  pen-name,  especially 
for  his  journalistic  and  humorous  work.  Clemens 
felt  that  his  Enterprise  letters,  copied  up  and  down 
the  Coast,  needed  a  mark  of  identity. 

He  gave  the  matter  a  good  deal  of  thought.  He 
wanted  something  brief  and  strong — something  that 
would  stick  in  the  mind.  It  was  just  at  this  time 
that  news  came  of  the  death  of  Capt.  Isaiah  Sellers, 
the  old  pilot  who  had  signed  himself  "Mark  Twain." 
Mark  Twain!  That  was  the  name  he  wanted.  It 
was  not  trivial.  It  had  all  the  desired  qualities. 
Captain  Sellers  would  never  need  it  again.  It  would 
do  no  harm  to  keep  it  alive — to  give  it  a  new  mean- 
130 


"MARK   TWAIN" 

ing  in  a  new  land.  Clemens  took  a  trip  from  Carson 
up  to  Virginia  City. 

"Joe,"  he  said  to  Goodman,  "I  want  to  sign  my 
articles.  I  want  to  be  identified  to  a  wider  audience." 

"All  right,  Sam.  What  name  do  you  want  to  use 
—Josh?" 

"No,  I  want  to  sign  them  Mark  Twain.  It  is  an 
old  river  term,  a  leadsman's  call,  signifying  two 
fathoms — twelve  feet.  It  has  a  richness  about  it; 
it  was  always  a  pleasant  sound  for  a  pilot  to  hear  on 
a  dark  night;  it  meant  safe  waters." 

He  did  not  mention  that  Captain  Sellers  had  used 
and  dropped  the  name.  He  was  not  proud  of  his 
part  in  that  episode,  and  it  was  too  recent  for  con- 
fession. 

Goodman  considered  a  moment.  "Very  well, 
Sam,"  he  said,  "that  sounds  like  a  good  name." 

A  good  name,  indeed!  Probably,  if  he  had  con- 
sidered every  combination  of  words  in  the  language, 
he  could  not  have  found  a  better  one.  To-day  we 
recognize  it  as  the  greatest  nom  de  plume  ever  chosen, 
and,  somehow,  we  cannot  believe  that  the  writer  of 
Tom  Sawyer  and  Huck  Finn  and  Roughing  It  could 
have  selected  any  other  had  he  tried. 

The  name  Mark  Twain  was  first  signed  to  a 
Carson  letter,  February  2,  1863,  and  after  that  to 
all  of  Samuel  Clemens's  work.  The  letters  that  had 
amused  so  many  readers  had  taken  on  a  new  inter- 
est— the  interest  that  goes  with  a  name.  It  became 
immediately  more  than  a  pen-name.  Clemens  found 
he  had  attached  a  name  to  himself  as  well  as  to  his 
letters.  Everybody  began  to  address  him  as  Mark. 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Within  a  few  weeks  he  was  no  longer  "Sam"  or 
"Clemens,"  but  Mark — Mark  Twain.  The  Coast 
papers  liked  the  sound  of  it.  It  began  to  mean 
something  to  their  readers.  By  the  end  of  that  legis- 
lative session  Samuel  Clemens,  as  Mark  Twain,  had 
acquired  out  there  on  that  breezy  Western  slope 
something  resembling  fame. 

Curiously,  he  fails  to  mention  any  of  this  success 
in  his  letters  home  of  that  period.  Indeed,  he  seldom 
refers  to  his  work,  but  more  often  speaks  of  mining 
shares  which  he  has  accumulated,  and  their  possible 
values.  His  letters  are  airy,  full  of  the  joy  of  life 
and  of  the  wild  doings  of  the  frontier.  Closing  one 
of  them,  he  says:  "I  have  just  heard  five  pistol- 
shots  down  the  street.  As  such  things  are  in  my  line, 
I  will  go  and  see  about  it." 

And  in  a  postscript,  later,  he  adds : 

5  A.M. — The  pistol-shots  did  their  work  well.  One  man, 
a  Jackson  County  Missourian,  shot  two  of  my  friends 
(police  officers)  through  the  heart — both  died  within 
three  minutes.  The  murderer's  name  is  John  Campbell. 

The  Comstock  was  a  great  school  for  Mark  Twain, 
and  in  Roughing  It  he  has  left  us  a  faithful  picture 
of  its  long-vanished  glory. 

More  than  one  national  character  came  out  of  the 
Comstock  school.    Senator  James  G.  Fair  was  one 
of  them,  and  John  Mackay,  both  miners  with  pick 
and  shovel  at  first,  though  Mackay  presently  became 
a  superintendent.    Mark  Twain  one  day  laughingly 
offered  to  trade  jobs  with  Mackay. 
'      "No,"  Mackay  said,  "I  can't  trade.    My  business 
132 


"MARK   TWAIN" 

is  not  worth  as  much  as  yours.    I  have  never  swindled 
anybody,  and  I  don't  intend  to  begin  now." 

For  both  these  men  the  future  held  splendid  gifts : 
for  Mackay  vast  wealth,  for  Mark  Twain  the  world's 
applause,  and  neither  would  have  long  to  wait. 


XXIII 

ARTEMUS  WARD  AND   LITERARY   SAN  FRANCISCO 

IT  was  about  the  end  of  1863  that  a  new  literary 
impulse  came  into  Mark  Twain's  life.  The  gentle 
and  lovable  humorist  Artemus  Ward  (Charles  F. 
Browne)  was  that  year  lecturing  in  the  West,  and 
came  to  Virginia  City.  Ward  had  intended  to  stay 
only  a  few  days,  but  the  whirl  of  the  Comstock  fas- 
cinated him.  He  made  the  Enterprise  office  his 
headquarters  and  remained  three  weeks.  He  and 
Mark  Twain  became  boon  companions.  Their  humor 
was  not  unlike;  they  were  kindred  spirits,  together 
almost  constantly.  Ward  was  then  at  the  summit 
of  his  fame,  and  gave  the  younger  man  the  highest 
encouragement,  prophesying  great  things  for  his 
work.  Clemens,  on  his  side,  was  stirred,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time,  with  a  real  literary  ambition,  and 
the  thought  that  he,  too,  might  win  a  place  of 
honor.  He  promised  Ward  that  he  would  send  work 
to  the  Eastern  papers. 

On  Christmas  Eve,  Ward  gave  a  dinner  to  the 
Enterprise  staff,  at  Chaumond's,  a  fine  French  res- 
taurant of  that  day.  When  refreshments  came, 
Artemus  lifted  his  glass,  and  said: 

"I  give  you  Upper  Canada." 


ARTEMUS   WARD 

The  company  rose  and  drank  the  toast  in  serious 
silence.  Then  Mr.  Goodman  said: 

"Of  course,  Artemus,  it's  all  right,  but  why  did 
you  give  us  Upper  Canada?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  it  myself,"  said  Ward, 
gravely. 

What  would  one  not  give  to  have  listened  to  the 
talk  of  that  evening!  Mark  Twain's  power  had 
awakened;  Artemus  Ward  was  in  his  prime.  They 
were  giants  of  a  race  that  became  extinct  when 
Mark  Twain  died. 

Goodman  remained  rather  quiet  during  the  even- 
ing. Ward  had  appointed  him  to  order  the  dinner, 
and  he  had  attended  to  this  duty  without  mingling 
much  in  the  conversation.  When  Ward  asked  him 
why  he  did  not  join  the  banter,  he  said: 

"I  am  preparing  a  joke,  Artemus,  but  I  am  keep- 
ing it  for  the  present." 

At  a  late  hour  Ward  finally  called  for  the  bill.  It 
was  two  hundred  and  thirty-seven  dollars. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Artemus. 

"That's  my  joke,"  said  Goodman. 

"But  I  was  only  exclaiming  because  it  was  not 
twice  as  much,"  laughed  Ward,  laying  the  money  on 
the  table. 

Ward  remained  through  the  holidays,  and  later 
wrote  back  an  affectionate  letter  to  Mark  Twain. 

"I  shall  always  remember  Virginia  as  a  bright 
spot  in  my  existence,"  he  said,  "as  all  others  must, 
or  rather,  cannot  be,  as  it  were." 

With  Artemus  Ward's  encouragement,  Mark 
Twain  now  began  sending  work  eastward.  The  New 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

York  Sunday  Mercury  published  one,  possibly  more, 
of  his  sketches,  but  they  were  not  in  his  best  vein, 
and  made  little  impression.  He  may  have  been  too 
busy  for  outside  work,  for  the  legislative  session  of 
1864  was  just  beginning.  Furthermore,  he  had  been 
chosen  governor  of  the  "Third  House,"  a  mock  leg- 
islature, organized  for  one  session,  to  be  held  as  a 
church  benefit.  The  "governor"  was  to  deliver  a 
message,  which  meant  that  he  was  to  burlesque  from 
the  platform  all  public  officials  and  personages,  from 
the  real  governor  down. 

With  the  exception  of  a  short  talk  he  had  once 
given  at  a  printer's  dinner  in  Keokuk,  it  was  Mark 
Twain's  first  appearance  as  a  speaker,  and  the  be- 
ginning of  a  lifelong  series  of  triumphs  on  the  plat- 
form. The  building  was  packed — the  aisles  full. 
The  audience  was  ready  for  fun,  and  he  gave  it  to 
them.  Nobody  escaped  ridicule;  from  beginning  to 
end  the  house  was  a  storm  of  laughter  and  applause. 

Not  a  word  of  this  first  address  of  Mark  Twain's 
has  been  preserved,  but  those  who  heard  it  always 
spoke  of  it  as  the  greatest  effort  of  his  life,  as  to 
them  it  seemed,  no  doubt. 

For  his  Third  House  address,  Clemens  was  pre- 
sented with  a  gold  watch,  inscribed  "To  Governor 
Mark  Twain."  Everywhere,  now,  he  was  pointed 
out  as  a  distinguished  figure,  and  his  quaint  remarks 
were  quoted.  Few  of  these  sayings  are  remembered 
to-day,  though  occasionally  one  is  still  unforgotten. 
At  a  party  one  night,  being  urged  to  make  a  conun- 
drum, he  said : 

"Well,  why  am  I  like  the  Pacific  Ocean?" 
136 


ARTEMUS    WARD 

Several  guesses  were  made,  but  he  shook  his  head. 
Some  one  said: 

"We  give  it  up.  Tell  us,  Mark,  why  are  you  like 
the  Pacific  Ocean?" 

"I — don't — know,"  he  drawled.  "I  was  just — 
asking — for  information." 

The  governor  of  Nevada  was  generally  absent, 
and  Orion  Clemens  was  executive  head  of  the  ter- 
ritory. His  wife,  who  had  joined  him  in  Carson 
City,  was  social  head  of  the  little  capital,  and 
Brother  Sam,  with  his  new  distinction  and  now 
once  more  something  of  a  dandy  in  dress,  was  so- 
ciety's chief  ornament — a  great  change,  certainly, 
from  the  early  months  of  his  arrival  less  than  three 
years  before. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  May,  1864,  when  Mark 
Twain  left  Nevada  for  San  Francisco.  The  imme- 
diate cause  of  his  going  was  a  duel — a  duel  elabo- 
rately arranged  between  Mark  Twain  and  the  editor 
of  a  rival  paper,  but  never  fought.  In  fact,  it  was 
mainly  a  burlesque  affair  throughout,  chiefly  con- 
cocted by  that  inveterate  joker,  Steve  Gillis,  already 
mentioned  in  connection  with  the  pipe  incident.  The 
new  dueling  law,  however,  did  not  distinguish  be- 
tween real  and  mock  affrays,  and  the  prospect  of 
being  served  with  a  summons  made  a  good  excuse 
for  Clemens  and  Gillis  to  go  to  San  Francisco,  which 
had  long  attracted  them.  They  were  great  friends, 
these  two,  and  presently  were  living  together  and 
working  on  the  same  paper,  the  Morning  Call, 
Clemens  as  a  reporter  and  Gillis  as  a  compositor. 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Gillis,  with  his  tendency  to  mischief,  was  a  constant 
exasperation  to  his  room-mate,  who,  goaded  by  some 
new  torture,  would  sometimes  denounce  him  in 
feverish  terms.  Yet  they  were  never  anything  but 
the  closest  friends. 

Mark  Twain  did  not  find  happiness  in  his  new 
position  on  the  Call.  There  was  less  freedom  and 
more  drudgery  than  he  had  known  on  the  Enterprise. 
His  day  was  spent  around  the  police  court,  attending 
fires,  weddings,  and  funerals,  with  brief  glimpses  of 
the  theaters  at  night. 

Once  he  wrote:  "It  was  fearful  drudgery — soul- 
less drudgery — and  almost  destitute  of  interest.  It 
was  an  awful  slavery  for  a  lazy  man." 

It  must  have  been  so.  There  was  little  chance  for 
original  work.  He  had  become  just  a  part  of  a 
news  machine.  He  saw  many  public  abuses  that 
he  wished  to  expose,  but  the  policy  of  the  paper 
opposed  him.  Once,  however,  he  found  a  policeman 
asleep  on  his  beat.  Going  to  a  near-by  vegetable 
stall,  he  borrowed  a  large  cabbage-leaf,  came  back, 
and  stood  over  the  sleeper,  gently  fanning  him.  He 
knew  the  paper  would  not  publish  the  policeman's 
negligence,  but  he  could  advertise  it  in  his  own  way. 
A  large  crowd  soon  collected,  much  amused.  When 
he  thought  the  audience  large  enough,  he  went  away. 
Next  day  the  joke  was  all  over  the  city. 

He  grew  indifferent  to  the  Call  work,  and,  when 
an  assistant  was  allowed  him  to  do  part  of  the  run- 
ning for  items,  it  was  clear  to  everybody  that  pres- 
ently the  assistant  would  be  able  to  do  it  all. 

But  there  was  a  pleasant  and  profitable  side  to  the 
138 


ARTEMUS    WARD 

San  Francisco  life.  There  were  real  literary  people 
there — among  them  a  young  man,  with  rooms  up- 
stairs in  the  Call  office,  Francis  Bret  Harte,  editor 
of  the  Calif ornian,  a  new  literary  weekly  which 
Charles  Henry  Webb  had  recently  founded.  Bret 
Harte  was  not  yet  famous,  but  his  gifts  were  recog- 
nized on  the  Pacific  slope,  especially  by  the  Era 
group  of  writers,  the  Golden  Era  being  a  literary 
monthly  of  considerable  distinction.  Joaquin  Miller 
recalls,  from  his  diary  of  that  period,  having  seen 
Prentice  Mulford,  Bret  Harte,  Charles  Warren  Stod- 
dard,  Mark  Twain,  Artemus  Ward,  and  others,  all 
assembled  there  at  one  time — a  remarkable  group, 
certainly,  to  be  dropped  down  behind  the  Sierras  so 
long  ago.  They  were  a  hopeful,  happy  lot,  and  some- 
times received  five  dollars  for  an  article,  which,  of 
course,  seemed  a  good  deal  more  precious  than  a 
much  larger  sum  earned  in  another  way. 

Mark  Twain  had  contributed  to  the  Era  while  still 
in  Virginia  City,  and  now,  with  Bret  Harte,  was 
ranked  as  a  leader  of  the  group.  The  two  were  much 
together,  and  when  Harte  became  editor  of  the  Cal- 
if ornian  he  engaged  Clemens  as  a  regular  contributor 
at  the  very  fancy  rate  of  twelve  dollars  an  article. 
Some  of  the  brief  chapters  included  to-day  in  Sketches 
New  and  Old  were  done  at  this  time.  They  have 
humor,  but  are  not  equal  to  his  later  work,  and 
beyond  the  Pacific  slope  they  seem  to  have  attracted 
little  attention. 

In  Roughing  It  the  author  tells  us  how  he  finally 
was  dismissed  from  the  Call  for  general  incompetency, 
and  presently  found  himself  in  the  depths  of  hard 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

luck,  debt,  and  poverty.  But  this  is  only  his  old 
habit  of  making  a  story  on  himself  sound  as  uncom- 
plimentary as  possible.  The  true  version  is  that  the 
Call  publisher  and  Mark  Twain  had  a  friendly  talk 
and  decided  that  it  was  better  for  both  to  break  off 
the  connection.  Almost  immediately  he  arranged  to 
write  a  daily  San  Francisco  letter  for  the  Enterprise, 
for  which  he  received  thirty  dollars  a  week.  This, 
with  his  earnings  from  the  Californian,  made  his 
total  return  larger  than  before.  Very  likely  he  was 
hard  up  from  time  to  time — literary  men  are  often 
that — but  that  he  was  ever  in  abject  poverty,  as  he 
would  have  us  believe,  is  just  a  good  story  and  not 
history. 


XXIV 

THE   DISCOVERY  OF   "THE   JUMPING  FROG" 

MARK  TWAIN'S  daily  letters  to  the  Enterprise 
stirred  up  trouble  for  him  in  San  Francisco. 
He  was  free,  now,  to  write  what  he  chose,  and  he 
attacked  the  corrupt  police  management  with  such 
fierceness  that,  when  copies  of  the  Enterprise  got 
back  to  San  Francisco,  they  started  a  commotion  at 
the  city  hall.  Then  Mark  Twain  let  himself  go 
more  vigorously  than  ever.  He  sent  letters  to  the 
Enterprise  that  made  even  the  printers  afraid.  Good- 
man, however,  was  fearless,  and  let  them  go  in,  word 
for  word.  The  libel  suit  which  the  San  Francisco 
chief  of  police  brought  against  the  Enterprise  ad- 
vertised the  paper  amazingly. 

But  now  came  what  at  the  time  seemed  an  unfort- 
unate circumstance.  Steve  Gillis,  always  a  fearless 
defender  of  the  weak,  one  night  rushed  to  the  assist- 
ance of  two  young  fellows  who  had  been  set  upon 
by  three  roughs.  Gillis,  though  small  of  stature,  was 
a  terrific  combatant,  and  he  presently  put  two  of  the 
assailants  to  flight  and  had  the  other  ready  for  the 
hospital.  Next  day  it  turned  out  that  the  roughs 
were  henchmen  of  the  police,  and  Gillis  was  arrested. 
141 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Clemens  went  his  bail,  and  advised  Steve  to  go  down 
to  Virginia  City  until  the  storm  blew  over. 

But  it  did  not  blow  over  for  Mark  Twain.  The 
police  department  was  only  too  glad  to  have  a  chance 
at  the  author  of  the  fierce  Enterprise  letters,  and 
promptly  issued  a  summons  for  him,  with  an  exe- 
cution against  his  personal  effects.  If  James  N. 
Gillis,  brother  of  Steve,  had  not  happened  along 
just  then  and  spirited  Mark  Twain  away  to  his 
mining-camp  in  the  Tuolumne  Hills,  the  beautiful 
gold  watch  given  to  the  governor  of  the  Third  House 
might  have  been  sacrificed  in  the  cause  of  friendship. 

As  it  was,  he  found  himself  presently  in  the  far 
and  peaceful  seclusion  of  that  land  which  Bret  Harte 
would  one  day  make  famous  with  his  tales  of  Roaring 
Camp  and  Sandy  Bar.  Jim  Gillis  was,  in  fact,  the 
Truthful  James  of  Bret  Harte,  and  his  cabin  on 
Jackass  Hill  had  been  the  retreat  of  Harte  and  many 
another  literary  wayfarer  who  had  wandered  there 
for  rest  and  refreshment  and  peace.  It  was  said  the 
sick  were  made  well,  and  the  well  made  better,  in 
Jim  Gillis's  cabin.  There  were  plenty  of  books  and 
a  variety  of  out-of-door  recreation.  One  could  mine 
there  if  he  chose.  Jim  would  furnish  the  visiting 
author  with  a  promising  claim,  and  teach  him  to 
follow  the  little  fan-like  drift  of  gold  specks  to  the 
pocket  of  treasure  somewhere  up  the  hillside. 

Gillis  himself  had  literary  ability,  though  he  never 
wrote.  He  told  his  stories,  and  with  his  back  to  the 
open  fire  would  weave  the  most  amazing  tales,  in- 
vented as  he  went  along.  His  stories  were  generally 
wonderful  adventures  that  had  happened  to  his 
142 


"THE   JUMPING   FROG" 

faithful  companion,  Stoker;  and  Stoker  never  de- 
nied them,  but  would  smoke  and  look  into  the  fire, 
smiling  a  little  sometimes,  but  never  saying  a  word. 
A  number  of  the  tales  later  used  by  Mark  Twain 
were  first  told  by  Jim  Gillis  in  the  cabin  on  Jackass 
Hill.  "Dick  Baker's  Cat"  was  one  of  these,  the 
jay-bird  and  acorn  story  in  A  Tramp  Abroad  was 
another.  Mark  Twain  had  little  to  add  to  these 
stories. 

"They  are  not  mine,  they  are  Jim's,"  he  said, 
once;  "but  I  never  could  get  them  to  sound  like 
Jim — they  were  never  as  good  as  his." 

It  was  early  in  December,  1864,  when  Mark  Twain 
arrived  at  the  humble  retreat,  built  of  logs  under  a 
great  live-oak  tree,  and  surrounded  by  a  stretch  of 
blue-grass.  A  younger  Gillis  boy  was  there  at  the 
time,  and  also,  of  course,  Dick  Stoker  and  his  cat,  Tom 
Quartz,  which  every  reader  of  Roughing  It  knows. 

It  was  the  rainy  season,  but  on  pleasant  days 
they  all  went  pocket-mining,  and,  in  January,  Mark 
Twain,  Gillis,  and  Stoker  crossed  over  into  Cala- 
veras  County  and  began  work  near  Angel's  Camp,  a 
place  well  known  to  readers  of  Bret  Harte.  They 
put  Tip  at  a  poor  hotel  in  Angel's,  and  on  good  days 
worked  pretty  faithfully.  But  it  was  generally  rain- 
ing, and  the  food  was  poor. 

In  his  note-book,  still  preserved,  Mark  Twain 
wrote:  "January  27  (1865). — Same  old  diet — same 
old  weather — went  out  to  the  pocket-claim — had  to 
rush  back." 

So  they  spent  a  good  deal  of  their  time  around  the 
rusty  stove  in  the  dilapidated  tavern  at  Angel's 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Camp.  It  seemed  a  profitless  thing  to  do,  but  few 
experiences  were  profitless  to  Mark  Twain,  and 
certainly  this  one  was  not. 

At  this  barren  mining  hotel  there  happened  to  be 
a  former  Illinois  River  pilot  named  Ben  Coon,  a 
solemn,  sleepy  person,  who  dozed  by  the  stove  or 
told  slow,  pointless  stories  to  any  one  who  would 
listen.  Not  many  would  stay  to  hear  him,  but  Jim 
Gillis  and  Mark  Twain  found  him  a  delight.  They 
would  let  him  wander  on  in  his  dull  way  for  hours, 
and  saw  a  vast  humor  in  a  man  to  whom  all  tales, 
however  trivial  or  absurd,  were  serious  history. 

At  last,  one  dreary  afternoon,  he  told  them  about 
a  frog — a  frog  that  had  belonged  to  a  man  named 
Coleman,  who  had  trained  it  to  jump,  and  how  the 
trained  frog  had  failed  to  win  a  wager  because  the 
owner  of  the  rival  frog  had  slyly  loaded  the  trained 
jumper  with  shot.  It  was  not  a  new  story  in  the 
camps,  but  Ben  Coon  made  a  long  tale  of  it,  and  it 
happened  that  neither  Clemens  nor  Gillis  had  heard 
it  before.  They  thought  it  amusing,  and  his  solemn 
way  of  telling  it  still  more  so. 

"I  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that  frog  that's  better 
than  any  other  frog,"  became  a  catch  phrase  among 
the  mining  partners;  and,  "I  'ain't  got  no  frog,  but 
if  I  had  a  frog,  I'd  bet  you." 

Out  on  the  claim,  Clemens,  watching  Gillis  and 
Stoker  anxiously  washing,  would  say,  "I  don't  see 
no  p'ints  about  that  pan  o'  dirt  that's  any  better 
than  any  other  pan  o'  dirt."  And  so  they  kept  the 
tale  going.  In  his  note-book  Mark  Twain  made  a 
brief  memorandum  of  the  story  for  possible  use. 
144 


"THE   JUMPING    FROG" 

The  mining  was  rather  hopeless  work.  The  con- 
stant and  heavy  rains  were  disheartening.  Clemens 
hated  it,  and  even  when,  one  afternoon,  traces  of  a 
pocket  began  to  appear,  he  rebelled  as  the  usual  chill 
downpour  set  in. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  "let's  go  home;  we'll  freeze  here." 

Gillis,  as  usual,  was  washing,  and  Clemens  carry- 
ing the  water.  Gillis,  seeing  the  gold  "color"  im- 
proving with  every  pan,  wanted  to  go  on  washing 
and  climbing  toward  the  precious  pocket,  regardless 
of  wet  and  cold.  Clemens,  shivering  and  disgusted, 
vowed  that  each  pail  of  water  would  be  his  last. 
His  teeth  were  chattering,  and  he  was  wet  through. 
Finally  he  said: 

"Jim,  I  won't  carry  any  more  water.  This  work 
is  too  disagreeable." 

Gillis  had  just  taken  out  a  panful  of  dirt. 

"Bring  one  more  pail,  Sam,"  he  begged. 

"Jim,  I  won't  do  it.     I'm — freezing." 

"Just  one  more  pail,  Sam!"  Jim  pleaded. 

"No,  sir;  not  a  drop — not  if  I  knew  there  was  a 
million  dollars  in  that  pan." 

Gillis  tore  out  a  page  of  his  note-book  and  hastily 
posted  a  thirty-day-claim  notice  by  the  pan  of  dirt. 
Then  they  set  out  for  Angel's  Camp,  never  to  re- 
turn. It  kept  on  raining,  and  a  letter  came  from 
Steve  Gillis,  saying  he  had  settled  all  the  trouble  in 
San  Francisco.  Clemens  decided  to  return,  and  the 
miners  left  Angel's  without  visiting  their  claim  again. 

Meantime  the  rain  had  washed  away  the  top  of 
the  pan  of  dirt  they  had  left  standing  on  the  hillside, 
exposing  a  handful  of  nuggets,  pure  gold.  Two 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

strangers,  Austrians,  happening  along,  gathered  it 
up  and,  seeing  the  claim  notice  posted  by  Jim  Gillis, 
sat  down  to  wait  until  it  expired.  They  did  not  mind 
the  rain — not  under  the  circumstances — and  the 
moment  the  thirty  days  were  up  they  followed  the 
lead  a  few  pans  farther  and  took  out,  some  say  ten, 
some  say  twenty,  thousand  dollars.  In  either  case 
it  was  a  good  pocket  that  Mark  Twain  missed  by  one 
pail  of  water.  Still,  without  knowing  it,  he  had 
carried  away  in  his  note-book  a  single  nugget  of  far 
greater  value — the  story  of  "The  Jumping  Frog." 

He  did  not  write  it,  however,  immediately  upon 
his  return  to  San  Francisco.  He  went  back  to  his 
Enterprise  letters  and  contributed  some  sketches  to 
the  Californian.  Perhaps  he  thought  the  frog  story 
too  mild  in  humor  for  the  slope.  By  and  by  he 
wrote  it,  and  by  request  sent  it  to  Artemus  Ward 
to  be  used  in  a  book  that  Ward  was  about  to  issue. 
It  arrived  too  late,  and  the  publisher  handed  it 
to  the  editor  of  the  Saturday  Press,  Henry  Clapp, 
saying: 

"Here,  Clapp,  is  something  you  can  use  in  your 
paper." 

The  Press  was  struggling,  and  was  glad  to  get  a 
story  so  easily.  ' '  Jim  Smiley  and  his  Jumping  Frog ' ' 
appeared  in  the  issue  of  November  18,  1865,  and  was 
at  once  copied  and  quoted  far  and  near.  It  carried 
the  name  of  Mark  Twain  across  the  mountains  and 
the  prairies  of  the  Middle  West;  it  bore  it  up  and 
down  the  Atlantic  slope.  Some  one  said,  then  or 
later,  that  Mark  Twain  leaped  into  fame  on  the 
back  of  a  jumping  frog. 

146 


"THE   JUMPING    FROG" 

Curiously,  this  did  not  at  first  please  the  author. 
He  thought  the  tale  poor.  To  his  mother  he  wrote : 

I  do  not  know  what  to  write;  my  life  is  so  uneventful. 
I  wish  I  was  back  there  piloting  up  and  down  the  river 
again.  Verily,  all  is  vanity  and  little  worth — save  piloting. 

To  think  that,  after  writing  many  an  article  a  man 
might  be  excused  for  thinking  tolerably  good,  those  New 
York  people  should  single  out  a  villainous  backwoods 
sketch  to  compliment  me  on! — "Jim  Smiley  and  his 
Jumping  Frog" — a  squib  which  would  never  have  been 
written  but  to  please  Artemus  Ward. 

However,  somewhat  later  he  changed  his  mind 
considerably,  especially  when  he  heard  that  James 
Russell  Lowell  had  pronounced  the  story  the  finest 
piece  of  humorous  writing  yet  produced  in  America. 


XXV 

HAWAII  AND  ANSON   BURLINGAME 

MARK  TWAIN  remained  about  a  year  in  San 
Francisco  after  his  return  from  the  Gillis 
cabin  and  Angel's  Camp,  adding  to  his  prestige  along 
the  Coast  rather  than  to  his  national  reputation. 
Then,  in  the  spring  of  1866  he  was  commissioned  by 
the  Sacramento  Union  to  write  a  series  of  letters  that 
would  report  the  life,  trade,  agriculture,  and  general 
aspects  of  the  Hawaiian  group.  He  sailed  in  March, 
and  his  four  months  in  those  delectable  islands  re- 
mained always  to  him  a  golden  memory — an  experi- 
ence which  he  hoped  some  day  to  repeat.  He  was 
young  and  eager  for  adventure  then,  and  he  went 
everywhere — horseback  and  afoot — saw  everything, 
did  everything,  and  wrote  of  it  all  for  his  paper.  His 
letters  to  the  Union  were  widely  read  and  quoted, 
and,  though  not  especially  literary,  added  much  to 
his  journalistic  standing.  He  was  a  great  sight-seer 
in  those  days,  and  a  persevering  one.  No  discomfort 
or  risk  discouraged  him.  Once,  with  a  single  daring 
companion,  he  crossed  the  burning  floor  of  the 
mighty  crater  of  Kilauea,  racing  across  the  burning 
lava,  leaping  wide  and  bottomless  crevices  where  a 
148 


HAWAII    AND    ANSON    BURLINGAME 

misstep  would  have  meant  death.  His  open-air  life 
on  the  river  and  in  the  mining-camps  had  nerved 
and  hardened  him  for  adventure.  He  was  thirty 
years  old  and  in  his  physical  prime.  His  mental 
growth  had  been  slower,  but  it  was  sure,  and  it 
would  seem  always  to  have  had  the  right  guidance 
at  the  right  time. 

Clemens  had  been  in  the  islands  three  months 
when  one  day  Anson  Burlingame  arrived  there,  en 
route  to  his  post  as  minister  to  China.  With  him 
was  his  son  Edward,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  and  General 
Van  Valkenburg,  minister  to  Japan.  Young  Burlin- 
game had  read  about  Jim  Smiley's  jumping  frog  and, 
learning  that  the  author  was  in  Honolulu,  but  ill 
after  a  long  trip  inland,  sent  word  that  the  party 
would  call  on  him  next  morning.  But  Mark  Twain 
felt  that  he  could  not  accept  this  honor,  and,  crawling 
out  of  bed,  shaved  himself  and  drove  to  the  home  of 
the  American  minister,  where  the  party  was  staying. 
He  made  a  great  impression  with  the  diplomats.  It 
was  an  occasion  of  good  stories  and  much  laughter. 
On  leaving,  General  Van  Valkenburg  said  to  him: 

"California  is  proud  of  Mark  Twain,  and  some 
day  the  American  people  will  be,  too,  no  doubt." 
Which  was  certainly  a  good  prophecy. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  later  that  the  diplomats 
rendered  him  a  great  service.  Report  had  come  of 
the  arrival  at  Sanpahoe  of  an  open  boat  containing 
fifteen  starving  men,  who  had  been  buffeting  a 
stormy  sea  for  forty-three  days — sailors  from  the 
missing  ship  Hornet  of  New  York,  which,  it  ap- 
peared, had  been  burned  at  sea.  Presently  eleven 
ii  149 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

of  the  rescued  men  were  brought  to  Honolulu  and 
placed  in  the  hospital. 

Mark  Twain  recognized  the  great  importance  as 
news  of  this  event.  It  would  be  a  splendid  beat  if 
he  could  interview  the  castaways  and  be  the  first  to 
get  their  story  in  his  paper.  There  was  no  cable,  but 
a  vessel  was  sailing  for  San  Francisco  next  morning. 
It  seemed  the  opportunity  of  a  lifetime,  but  he  was 
now  bedridden  and  could  scarcely  move. 

Then  suddenly  appeared  in  his  room  Anson  Bur- 
lingame  and  his  party,  and,  almost  before  Mark 
Twain  realized  what  was  happening,  he  was  on  a 
cot  and,  escorted  by  the  heads  of  two  legations,  was 
on  his  way  to  the  hospital  to  get  the  precious  inter- 
view. Once  there,  Anson  Burlingame,  with  his  gentle 
manner  and  courtly  presence,  drew  from  those  en- 
feebled castaways  all  the  story  of  the  burning  of  the 
vessel,  followed  by  the  long  privation  and  struggle 
that  had  lasted  through  forty-three  fearful  days  and 
across  four  thousand  miles  of  stormy  sea.  All  that 
Mark  Twain  had  to  do  was  to  listen  and  make  notes. 
That  night  he  wrote  against  time,  and  next  morning, 
just  as  the  vessel  was  drifting  from  the  dock,  a 
strong  hand  flung  his  bulky  manuscript  aboard  and 
his  great  beat  was  sure.  The  three-column  story, 
published  in  the  Sacramento  Union  of  July  9,  gave 
the  public  the  first  detailed  history  of  the  great  dis- 
aster. The  telegraph  carried  it  everywhere,  and  it 
was  featured  as  a  sensation. 

Mark  Twain  and  the  Burlingame  party  were  much 
together  during  the  rest  of  their  stay  in  Hawaii,  and 
Samuel  Clemens  never  ceased  to  love  and  honor  the 
150 


HAWAII   AND  ANSON   BURLINGAME 

memory  of  Anson  Burlingame.  It  was  proper  that 
he  should  do  so,  for  he  owed  him  much — far  more 
than  has  already  been  told. 

Anson  Burlingame  one  day  said  to  him:  "You 
have  great  ability;  I  believe  you  have  genius.  What 
you  need  now  is  the  refinement  of  association.  Seek 
companionship  among  men  of  superior  intellect  and 
character.  Refine  yourself  and  your  work.  Never 
affiliate  with  inferiors;  always  climb." 

This,  coming  to  him  from  a  man  of  Burlingame's 
character  and  position,  was  like  a  gospel  from  some 
divine  source.  Clemens  never  forgot  the  advice.  It 
gave  him  courage,  new  hope,  new  resolve,  new  ideals. 

Burlingame  came  often  to  the  hotel,  and  they  dis- 
cussed plans  for  Mark  Twain's  future.  The  diplo- 
mat invited  the  journalist  to  visit  him  in  China: 

"Come  to  Pekin,"  he  said,  "and  make  my  house 
your  home." 

Young  Burlingame  also  came,  when  the  patient  be- 
came convalescent,  and  suggested  walks.  Once, 
when  Clemens  hesitated,  the  young  man  said : 

"But  there  is  a  scriptural  command  for  you  to  go." 

"If  you  can  quote  one,  I'll  obey,"  said  Clemens. 

"Very  well;  the  Bible  says:  'If  any  man  require 
thee  to  walk  a  mile,  go  with  him  Twain.'" 

The  walk  was  taken. 

Mark  Twain  returned  to  California  at  the  end  of 
July,  and  went  down  to  Sacramento.  It  was  agreed 
that  a  special  bill  should  be  made  for  the  Hornet 
report. 

"How  much  do  you  think  it  ought  to  be,  Mark?" 
asked  one  of  the  proprietors. 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Clemens  said:  "Oh,  I'm  a  modest  man;  I  don't 
want  the  whole  Union  office;  call  it  a  hundred  dollars 
a  column." 

There  was  a  general  laugh.  The  bill  was  made  out 
at  that  figure,  and  he  took  it  to  the  office  for  pay- 
ment. 

"The  cashier  didn't  faint,"  he  wrote  many  years 
later,  "but  he  came  rather  near  it.  He  sent  for  the 
proprietors,  and  they  only  laughed  in  their  jolly 
fashion,  and  said  it  was  robbery,  but  'no  matter,  pay 
it.  It's  all  right.'  The  best  men  that  ever  owned  a 
paper." « 

1  "My  Etebut  as  a  Literary  Persom." 


XXVI 

MARK  TWAIN,    LECTURER 

IN  spite  of  the  success  of  his  Sandwich  Island 
letters,  Samuel  Clemens  felt,  on  his  return  to 
San  Francisco,  that  his  future  was  not  bright.  He 
was  not  a  good,  all-round  newspaper  man — he  was 
special  correspondent  and  sketch-writer,  out  of  a  job. 

He  had  a  number  of  plans,  but  they  did  not  prom- 
ise much.  One  idea  was  to  make  a  book  from  his 
Hawaiian  material.  Another  was  to  write  magazine 
articles,  beginning  with  one  on  the  Hornet  disaster. 
He  did,  in  fact,  write  the  Hornet  article,  and  its 
prompt  acceptance  by  Harper's  Magazine  delighted 
him,  for  it  seemed  a  start  in  the  right  direction.  A 
third  plan  was  to  lecture  on  the  islands. 

This  prospect  frightened  him.  He  had  succeeded 
in  his  "Third  House"  address  of  two  years  before, 
but  then  he  had  lectured  without  charge  and  for  a 
church  benefit.  This  would  be  a  different  matter. 

One  of  the  proprietors  of  a  San  Francisco  paper, 
Col.  John  McComb,  of  the  Alia  California,  was  strong 
in  his  approval  of  the  lecture  idea. 

1 '  Do  it,  by  all  means, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Take  the  largest 
house  in  the  city,  and  charge  a  dollar  a  ticket." 

Without  waiting  until  his  fright  came  back,  Mark 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Twain  hurried  to  the  manager  of  the  Academy  of 
Music,  and  engaged  it  for  a  lecture  to  be  given 
October  26.  (1866),  and  sat  down  and  wrote  his 
announcement.  He  began  by  stating  what  he  would 
speak  upon,  and  ended  with  a  few  absurdities,  such  as : 

A  SPLENDID  ORCHESTRA 
is  in  town,  but  has  not  been  engaged. 

Also 
A  DEN  OP  FEROCIOUS  WILD  BEASTS 

will  be  on  exhibition  in  the  next  block. 

A  GRAND  TORCHLIGHT  PROCESSION 

may  be  expected;  in  fact,  the  public  are  privileged  to 

expect  whatever  they  please. 

Doors  open  at  7  o'clock.   The  trouble  to  begin  at  8  o'clock. 

Mark  Twain  was  well  known  in  San  Francisco, 
and  was  pretty  sure  to  have  a  good  house.  But  he 
did  not  realize  this,  and,  as  the  evening  approached, 
his  dread  of  failure  increased.  Arriving  at  the 
theater,  he  entered  by  the  stage  door,  half  expecting 
to  find  the  place  empty.  Then,  suddenly,  he  became 
more  frightened  than  ever;  peering  from  the  wings, 
he  saw  that  the  house  was  jammed — packed  from 
the  footlights  to  the  walls!  Terrified,  his  knees 
shaking,  his  tongue  dry,  he  managed  to  emerge,  and 
was  greeted  with  a  roar,  a  crash  of  applause  that 
nearly  finished  him.  Only  for  an  instant — reaction 
followed;  these  people  were  his  friends,  and  he  was 
talking  to  them.  He  forgot  to  be  afraid,  and,  as  the 


MARK   TWAIN,   LECTURER 

applause  came  in  great  billows  that  rose  ever  higher, 
he  felt  himself  borne  with  it  as  on  a  tide  of  happiness 
and  success.  His  evening,  from  beginning  to  end, 
was  a  complete  triumph.  Friends  declared  that  for 
descriptive  eloquence,  humor,  and  real  entertain- 
ment nothing  like  his  address  had  ever  been  deliv- 
ered. The  morning  papers  were  enthusiastic. 

Mark  Twain  no  longer  hesitated  as  to  what  he 
should  do  now.  He  would  lecture.  The  book  idea 
no  longer  attracted  him;  the  appearance  of  the 
Hornet  article,  signed,  through  a  printer's  error, 
"Mark  Swain,"  cooled  his  desire  to  be  a  magazine 
contributor.  No  matter — lecturing  was  the  thing. 
Dennis  McCarthy,  who  had  sold  his  interest  in  the 
Enterprise,  was  in  San  Francisco.  Clemens  engaged 
this  honest,  happy-hearted  Irishman  as  manager, 
and  the  two  toured  California  and  Nevada  with 
continuous  success. 

Those  who  remember  Mark  Twain  as  a  lecturer 
in  that  early  day  say  that  on  entering  he  would 
lounge  loosely  across  the  platform,  his  manuscript — 
written  on  wrapping-paper  and  carried  under  his 
arm — looking  like  a  ruffled  hen.  His  delivery  they 
recall  as  being  even  more  quaint  and  drawling  than 
in  later  life.  Once,  when  his  lecture  was  over,  an 
old  man  came  up  to  him  and  said: 

"Be  them  your  natural  tones  of  eloquence?" 

In  those  days  it  was  thought  proper  that  a  lect- 
urer should  be  introduced,  and  Clemens  himself 
used  to  tell  of  being  presented  by  an  old  miner,  who 
said : 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  know  only  two  things 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

about  this  man :  the  first  is  that  he's  never  been  in 
jail,  and  the  second  is,  I  don't  know  why." 

When  he  reached  Virginia,  his  old  friend  Good- 
man said,  "Sam,  you  don't  need  anybody  to  intro- 
duce you,"  and  he  suggested  a  novel  plan.  That 
night,  when  the  curtain  rose,  it  showed  Mark 
Twain  seated  at  a  piano,  playing  and  singing,  as  if 
still  cub  pilot  on  the  John  J.  Roe: 

"Had  an  old  horse  whose  name  was  Methusalem, 
1  Took  him  down  and  sold  him  in  Jerusalem, 
A  long  time  ago." 

Pretending  to  be  surprised  and  startled  at  the 
burst  of  applause,  he  sprang  up  and  began  to  talk. 
How  the  audience  enjoyed  it! 

Mark  Twain  continued  his  lecture  tour  into 
December,  and  then,  on  the  i$th  of  that  month, 
sailed  by  way  of  the  Isthmus  of  Panama  for 
New  York.  He  had  made  some  money,  and  was 
going  home  to  see  his  people.  He  had  planned  to 
make  a  trip  around  the  world  later,  contributing  a 
series  of  letters  to  the  Alia  California,  lecturing 
where  opportunity  afforded.  He  had  been  on  the 
Coast  five  and  a  half  years,  and  to  his  professions  of 
printing  and  piloting  had  added  three  others — 
mining,  journalism,  and  lecturing.  Also,  he  had  ac- 
quired a  measure  of  fame.  He  could  come  back  to 
his  people  with  a  good  account  of  his  absence  and 
a  good  heart  for  the  future. 

But  it  seems  now  only  a  chance  that  he  arrived  at 
all.  Crossing  the  Isthmus,  he  embarked  for  New 
York  on  what  proved  to  be  a  cholera  ship.  For  a 
156 


MARK   TWAIN,   LECTURER 

time   there  were  one  or  more  funerals  daily.     An 
entry  in  his  diary  says: 

Since  the  last  two  hours  all  laughter,  all  levity,  has 
ceased  on  the  ship — a  settled  gloom  is  upon  the  faces  of 
the  passengers. 

But  the  winter  air  of  the  North  checked  the  con- 
tagion, and  there  were  no  new  cases  when  New  York 
City  was  reached. 

Clemens  remained  but  a  short  time  in  New  York, 
and  was  presently  in  St.  Louis  with  his  mother  and 
sister.  They  thought  he  looked  old,  but  he  had  not 
changed  in  manner,  and  the  gay  banter  between 
mother  and  son  was  soon  as  lively  as  ever.  He  was 
thirty-one  now,  and  she  sixty-four,  but  the  years 
had  made  little  difference.  She  petted  him,  joked 
with  him,  and  scolded  him.  In  turn,  he  petted  and 
comforted  and  teased  her.  She  decided  he  was  the 
same  Sam  and  always  would  be — a  true  prophecy. 

He  visited  Hannibal  and  lectured  there,  receiving 
an  ovation  that  would  have  satisfied  even  Tom  Saw- 
yer. In  Keokuk  he  lectured  again,  then  returned  to 
St.  Louis  to  plan  his  trip  around  the  world. 

He  was  not  to  make  a  trip  around  the  world,  how- 
ever— not  then.  In  St.  Louis  he  saw  the  notice  of 
the  great  Quaker  City  Holy  Land  excursion — the  first 
excursion  of  the  kind  ever  planned — and  was  greatly 
taken  with  the  idea.  Impulsive  as  always,  he  wrote 
at  once  to  the  Alia  California,  proposing  that  they 
send  him  as  their  correspondent  on  this  grand  ocean 
picnic.  The  cost  of  passage  was  $1,200,  and  the 
Alia  hesitated,  but  Colonel  McComb,  already  men- 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

tioned,  assured  his  associates  that  the  investment 
would  be  sound.  The  Alia  wrote,  accepting  Mark 
Twain's  proposal,  and  agreed  to  pay  twenty  dollars 
each  for  letters.  Clemens  hurried  to  New  York  to 
secure  a  berth,  fearing  the  passenger-list  might  be 
full.  Furthermore,  with  no  one  of  distinction  to 
vouch  for  him,  according  to  advertised  requirements, 
he  was  not  sure  of  being  accepted.  Arriving  in  New 
York,  he  learned  from  an  Alia  representative  that 
passage  had  already  been  reserved  for  him,  but  he 
still  doubted  his  acceptance  as  one  of  the  distin- 
guished advertised  company.  His  mind  was  pres- 
ently relieved  on  this  point.  Waiting  his  turn  at  the 
booking-desk,  he  heard  a  newspaper  man  inquire: 

''What  notables  are  going?" 

A  clerk,  with  evident  pride,  rattled  off  the  names : 

"  Lieutenant  -  General  Sherman,  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  and  Mark  Twain;  also,  probably,  General 
Banks." 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  hear  the  clerk  say  that. 
Not  only  was  he  accepted,  but  billed  as  an  attraction. 

The  Quaker  City  would  not  sail  for  two  months 
yet,  and  during  the  period  of  waiting  Mark  Twain 
was  far  from  idle.  He  wrote  New  York  letters  to 
the  Alta,  and  he  embarked  in  two  rather  important 
ventures — he  published  his  first  book  and  he  deliv- 
ered a  lecture  in  New  York  City. 

Both  these  undertakings  were  planned  and  carried 
out  by  friends  from  the  Coast.  Charles  Henry 
Webb,  who  had  given  up  his  magazine  to  come  East, 
had  collected  The  Celebrated  Jumping  Frog  of  Cal- 
averas  County,  and  Other  Sketches,  and,  after  trying 
158 


MARK   TWAIN,    LECTURER 

in  vain  to  find  a  publisher  for  them,  brought  them 
out  himself,  on  the  ist  of  May,  I867.1  It  seems 
curious  now  that  any  publisher  should  have  declined 
the  little  volume,  for  the  sketches,  especially  the 
frog  story,  had  been  successful,  and  there  was  little 
enough  good  American  humor  in  print.  However, 
publishing  was  a  matter  not  lightly  undertaken  in 
those  days. 

Mark  Twain  seems  to  have  been  rather  pleased 
with  the  appearance  of  his  first  book.  To  Bret 
Harte  he  wrote : 

The  book  is  out  and  is  handsome.  It  is  full  of  ... 
errors,  .  .  .  but  be  a  friend  and  say  nothing  about  those 
things.  When  my  hurry  is  over,  I  will  send  you  a  copy 
to  pizen  the  children  with. 

The  little  cloth-and-gold  volume,  so  valued  by 
book-collectors  to-day,  contained  the  frog  story  and 
twenty-six  other  sketches,  some  of  which  are  still 
preserved  in  Mark  Twain's  collected  works.  Most 
of  them  were  not  Mark  Twain's  best  literature,  but 
they  were  fresh  and  readable  and  suited  the  taste 
of  that  period.  The  book  sold  very  well,  and,  while 
it  did  not  bring  either  great  fame  or  fortune  to  its 
author,  it  was  by  no  means  a  failure. 

The  "hurry"  mentioned  in  Mark  Twain's  letter 
to  Bret  Harte  related  to  his  second  venture — that 
is  to  say,  his  New  York  lecture,  an  enterprise  man- 
aged by  an  old  Comstock  friend,  Frank  Fuller,  ex- 
Governor  of  Utah.  Fuller,  always  a  sanguine  and 

1  The  printing  was  done  by  John  A.  Gray  &  Green,  the  firm  for 
which  the  boy  Sam  Clemens  had  set  type  thirteen  years  before. 
159 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

energetic  person,  had  proposed  the  lecture  idea  as 
soon  as  Mark  Twain  arrived  in  New  York.  Clemens 
shook  his  head. 

"I  have  no  reputation  with  the  general  public 
here,"  he  said.  "We  couldn't  get  a  baker's  dozen 
to  hear  me." 

But  Fuller  insisted,  and  eventually  engaged  the 
largest  hall  in  New  York,  the  Cooper  Union.  Full 
of  enthusiasm  and  excitement,  he  plunged  into  the 
business  of  announcing  and  advertising  his  attrac- 
tion, and  inventing  schemes  for  the  sale  of  seats. 
Clemens  caught  Fuller's  enthusiasm  by  spells,  but 
between  times  he  was  deeply  depressed.  Fuller  had 
got  up  a  lot  of  tiny  hand-bills,  and  had  arranged  to 
hang  bunches  of  these  in  the  horse-cars.  The  little 
dangling  clusters  fascinated  Clemens,  and  he  rode 
about  to  see  if  anybody  else  noticed  them.  Finally, 
after  a  long  time,  a  passenger  pulled  off  one  of  the 
bills  and  glanced  at  it.  A  man  with  him  asked: 

"Who's  Mark  Twain?" 

' ' Goodness  knows !     I  don't." 

The  lecturer  could  not  ride  any  farther.  He  hunted 
up  his  patron. 

"Fuller,"  he  groaned,  "there  isn't  a  sign — a  ripple 
of  interest." 

Fuller  assured  him  that  things  were  "working 
underneath,"  and  would  be  all  right.  But  Clemens 
wrote  home:  "Everything  looks  shady,  at  least,  if 
not  dark."  And  he  added  that,  after  hiring  the 
largest  house  in  New  York,  he  must  play  against 
Schuyler  Colfax,  Ristori,  and  a  double  troupe  of 
Japanese  jugglers,  at  other  places  of  amusement. 
1 60 


MARK   TWAIN,   LECTURER 

When  the  evening  of  the  lecture  approached  and 
only  a  few  tickets  had  been  sold,  the  lecturer  was 
desperate. 

"Fuller,"  he  said,  "there'll  be  nobody  in  Cooper 
Union  that  night  but  you  and  me.  I  am  on  the 
verge  of  suicide.  I  would  commit  suicide  if  I  had 
the  pluck  and  the  outfit.  You  must  paper  the  house, 
Fuller.  You  must  send  out  a  flood  of  complimen- 
taries!" 

' '  Very  well, ' '  said  Fuller.  ' '  What  we  want  this  time 
is  reputation,  anyway— money  is  secondary.  I'll 
put  you  before  the  choicest  and  most  intelligent  au- 
dience that  was  ever  gathered  in  New  York  City." 

Fuller  immediately  sent  out  complimentary  tick- 
ets to  the  school-teachers  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn 
— a  general  invitation  to  come  and  hear  Mark 
Twain's  great  lecture  on  the  Sandwich  Islands. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  after  that  but  wait  results. 

Mark  Twain  had  lost  faith — he  did  not  believe 
anybody  in  New  York  would  come  to  hear  him  even 
on  a  free  ticket.  When  the  night  arrived,  he  drove 
with  Fuller  to  the  Cooper  Union  half  an  hour  before 
the  lecture  was  to  begin.  Forty  years  later  he  said : 

"I  couldn't  keep  away.  I  wanted  to  see  that 
vast  Mammoth  Cave,  and  die.  But  when  we  got 
near  the  building,  I  saw  all  the  streets  were  blocked 
with  people  and  that  traffic  had  stopped.  I  couldn't 
believe  that  these  people  were  trying  to  get  to  the 
Cooper  Institute — but  they  were;  and  when  I  got 
to  the  stage,  at  last,  the  house  was  jammed  full — 
packed;  there  wasn't  room  enough  left  for  a  child. 

"I  was  happy  and  I  was  excited  beyond  expres- 
161 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

sion.  I  poured  the  Sandwich  Islands  out  on  those 
people,  and  they  laughed  and  shouted  to  my  entire 
content.  For  an  hour  and  fifteen  minutes  I  was  in 
paradise." 

So  in  its  way  this  venture  was  a  success.  It 
brought  Mark  Twain  a  good  deal  of  a  reputation  in 
New  York,  even  if  no  financial  profit,  though,  in  spite 
of  the  flood  of  complimentaries,  there  was  a  cash 
return  of  something  like  three  hundred  dollars.  This 
went  a  good  way  toward  paying  the  expenses,  while 
Fuller,  in  his  royal  way,  insisted  on  making  up  the 
deficit,  declaring  he  had  been  paid  for  everything 
in  the  fun  and  joy  of  the  game. 

"Mark,"  he  said,  "it's  all  right.  The  fortune 
didn't  come,  but  it  will.  The  fame  has  arrived; 
with  this  lecture  and  your  book  just  out,  you  are 
going  to  be  the  most-talked-of  man  in  the  country. 
Your  letters  to  the  Alia  and  the  Tribune  will  get  the 
widest  reception  of  any  letters  of  travel  ever  written." 


XXVII 

AN  INNOCENT  ABROAD,  AND  HOME  AGAIN 

IT  was  early  in  May — the  6th — that  Mark  Twain 
had  delivered  his  Cooper  Union  lecture,  and  a 
month  later,  June  8,  1867,  he  sailed  on  the  Quaker 
City,  with  some  sixty-six  other  "pilgrims,"  on  the 
great  Holy  Land  excursion,  the  story  of  which  has 
been  so  fully  and  faithfully  told  in  The  Innocents 
Abroad. 

What  a  wonderful  thing  it  must  have  seemed  in 
that  time  for  a  party  of  excursionists  to  have  a  ship 
all  to  themselves  to  go  a-gipsying  in  from  port  to  port 
of  antiquity  and  romance!  The  advertised  celeb- 
rities did  not  go,  none  of  them  but  Mark  Twain,  but 
no  one  minded,  presently,  for  Mark  Twain's  sayings 
and  stories  kept  the  company  sufficiently  enter- 
tained, and  sometimes  he  would  read  aloud  to  his 
fellow-passengers  from  the  newspaper  letters  he  was 
writing,  and  invite  comment  and  criticism.  That 
was  entertainment  for  them,  and  it  was  good  for 
him,  for  it  gave  him  an  immediate  audience,  always 
inspiring  to  an  author.  Furthermore,  the  comments 
offered  were  often  of  the  greatest  value,  especially 
suggestions  from  one  Mrs.  Fairbanks,  of  Cleveland, 
a  middle-aged,  cultured  woman,  herself  a  corre- 
163 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

spondent  for  her  husband's  paper,  the  Herald.  It 
requires  not  many  days  for  acquaintances  to  form 
on  shipboard,  and  in  due  time  a  little  group  gathered 
regularly  each  afternoon  to  hear  Mark  Twain  read 
what  he  had  written  of  their  day's  doings,  though 
some  of  it  he  destroyed  later  because  Mrs.  Fairbanks 
thought  it  not  his  best. 

All  of  the  "pilgrims"  mentioned  in  The  Innocents 
Abroad  were  real  persons.  "Dan"  was  Dan  Slote, 
Mark  Twain's  room-mate;  the  Doctor  who  con- 
fused the  guides  was  Dr.  A.  Reeves  Jackson,  of 
Chicago ;  the  poet  Lariat  was  Bloodgood  H.  Cutter, 
an  eccentric  from  Long  Island;  "Jack"  was  Jack 
Van  Nostrand,  of  New  Jersey;  and  "Moult"  and 
"Blucher"  and  "Charlie"  were  likewise  real,  the  last 
named  being  Charles  J.  Langdon,  of  Elmira,  N.  Y.,  a 
boy  of  eighteen,  whose  sister  would  one  day  become 
Mark  Twain's  wife. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mark  Twain  first  met  Olivia 
Langdon  on  the  Quaker  City,  but  this  is  not  quite 
true;  he  met  only  her  picture — the  original  was  not 
on  that  ship.  Charlie  Langdon,  boy  fashion,  made 
a  sort  of  hero  of  the  brilliant  man  called  Mark 
Twain,  and  one  day  in  the  Bay  of  Smyrna  invited 
him  to  his  cabin  and  exhibited  his  treasures,  among 
them  a  dainty  miniature  of  a  sister  at  home, 
Olivia,  a  sweet,  delicate  creature  whom  the  boy 
worshiped. 

Samuel  Clemens  gazed  long  at  the  exquisite  por- 
trait and  spoke  of  it  reverently,  for  in  the  sweet 
face  he  seemed  to  find  something  spiritual.  Often 
after  that  he  came  to  young  Langdon 's  cabin  to  look 
164 


MARK    TWAIN.    1867 


THE    STEAMSHIP    "QUAKER   CITY" 

(on  which  the  Innocents  made  their  famous  journey) 


CHARLES  J.  LANGDON  IN  1867 


OLIVIA   LANGDON,   1867 
(from  the  original  miniature) 


AN   INNOCENT   ABROAD 

at  the  pictured  countenance,  in  his  heart  dreaming  of 
a  day  when  he  might  learn  to  know  its  owner. 

We  need  not  follow  in  detail  here  the  travels  of 
the  "pilgrims"  and  their  adventures.  Most  of  them 
have  been  fully  set  down  in  The  Innocents  Abroad, 
and  with  not  much  elaboration,  for  plenty  of  amus- 
ing things  were  happening  on  a  trip  of  that  kind, 
and  Mark  Twain's  old  note-books  are  full  of  the  real 
incidents  that  we  find  changed  but  little  in  the  book. 
If  the  adventures  of  Jack,  Dan,  and  the  Doctor  are 
embroidered  here  and  there,  the  truth  is  always 
there,  too. 

Yet  the  old  note-books  have  a  very  intimate  inter- 
est of  their  own.  It  is  curious  to  be  looking  through 
them  to-day,  trying  to  realize  that  those  penciled 
memoranda  were  the  fresh  first  impressions  that 
would  presently  grow  into  the  world's  most  delight- 
ful book  of  travel;  that  they  were  set  down  in  the 
very  midst  of  that  historic  little  company  that  frol- 
icked through  Italy  and  climbed  wearily  the  arid 
Syrian  hills. 

It  required  five  months  for  the  Quaker  City  to 
make  the  circuit  of  the  Mediterranean  and  return 
to  New  York.  Mark  Twain  in  that  time  contrib- 
uted fifty  two  or  three  letters  to  the  Alia  California 
and  six  to  the  New  York  Tribune,  or  an  average  of 
nearly  three  a  week — a  vast  amount  of  labor  to  be 
done  in  the  midst  of  sight-seeing.  And  what  letters 
of  travel  they  were !  The  most  remarkable  that  had 
been  written  up  to  that  time.  Vivid,  fearless,  full  of 
fresh  color,  humor,  poetry,  they  came  as  a  revelation 
12  165 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

to  a  public  weary  of  the  tiresome  descriptive  drivel 
of  that  day.  They  preached  a  new  gospel  in  travel 
literature — the  gospel  of  seeing  honestly  and  speak- 
ing frankly — a  gospel  that  Mark  Twain  would  con- 
tinue to  preach  during  the  rest  of  his  career. 

Furthermore,  the  letters  showed  a  great  literary 
growth  in  their  author.  No  doubt  the  cultivated 
associations  of  the  ship,  the  afternoon  reading  aloud 
of  his  work,  and  Mrs.  Fairbanks's  advice  had  much 
to  do  with  this.  But  we  may  believe,  also,  that  the 
author's  close  study  of  the  King  James  version  of 
the  Old  Testament  during  the  weeks  of  travel 
through  Palestine  exerted  a  powerful  influence  upon 
his  style.  The  man  who  had  recited  "The  Burial  of 
Moses"  to  Joe  Goodman,  with  so  much  feeling,  could 
not  fail  to  be  mastered  by  the  simple  yet  stately 
Bible  phrase  and  imagery.  Many  of  the  fine  descrip- 
tive passages  in  The  Innocents  Abroad  have  something 
almost  Biblical  in  their  phrasing.  The  writer  of  this 
memoir  heard  in  childhood  The  Innocents  Abroad 
read  aloud,  and  has  never  forgotten  the  poetic  spell 
that  fell  upon  him  as  he  listened  to  a  paragraph 
written  of  Tangier: 

Here  is  a  crumbled  wall  that  was  old  when  Columbus 
discovered  America;  old  when  Peter  the  Hermit  roused 
the  knightly  men  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  arm  for  the  first 
Crusade;  old  when  Charlemagne  and  his  paladins  be- 
leaguered enchanted  castles  and  battled  with  giants  and 
genii  in  the  fabled  days  of  the  olden  time;  old  when 
Christ  and  His  disciples  walked  the  earth;  stood  where 
it  stands  to-day  when  the  lips  of  Memnon  were  vocal  and 
men  bought  and  sold  in  the  streets  of  ancient  Thebes. 
166 


AN   INNOCENT   ABROAD 

Mark  Twain  returned  to  America  to  find  himself, 
if  not  famous,  at  least  in  very  high  repute.  The  Alia 
and  Tribune  letters  had  carried  his  name  to  every 
corner  of  his  native  land.  He  was  in  demand  now. 
To  his  mother  he  wrote: 

I  have  eighteen  offers  to  lecture,  at  $100  each,  in  various 
parts  of  the  Union — have  declined  them  all.  .  .  .  Belong 
on  the  Tribune  staff  and  shall  write  occasionally.  Am 
offered  the  same  berth  to-day  on  the  Herald,  by  letter. 

He  was  in  Washington  at  this  time,  having  re- 
mained in  New  York  but  one  day.  He  had  accepted 
a  secretaryship  from  Senator  Stewart  of  Nevada, 
but  this  arrangement  was  a  brief  one.  He  required 
fuller  freedom  for  his  Washington  correspondence 
and  general  literary  undertakings. 

He  had  been  in  Washington  but  a  few  days  when 
he  received  a  letter  that  meant  more  to  him  than 
he  could  possibly  have  dreamed  at  the  moment.  It 
was  from  Elisha  Bliss,  Jr.,  manager  of  the  American 
Publishing  Company,  of  Hartford,  Connecticut,  and 
it  suggested  gathering  the  Mediterranean  travel- 
letters  into  a  book.  Bliss  was  a  capable,  energetic 
man,  with  a  taste  for  humor,  and  believed  there  was 
money  for  author  and  publisher  in  the  travel-book. 

The  proposition  pleased  Mark  Twain,  who  replied 
at  once,  asking  for  further  details  as  to  Bliss's  plan. 
Somewhat  later  he  made  a  trip  to  Hartford,  and  the 
terms  for  the  publication  of  The  Innocents  Abroad 
were  agreed  upon.  It  was  to  be  a  large  illustrated 
book  for  subscription  sale,  and  the  author  was  to 
receive  five  per  cent,  of  the  selling  price.  Bliss  had 
167 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

offered  him  the  choice  between  this  royalty  and  ten 
thousand  dollars  cash.  Though  much  tempted  by 
the  large  sum  to  be  paid  in  hand,  Mark  Twain  de- 
cided in  favor  of  the  royalty  plan — "the  best  busi- 
ness judgment  I  ever  displayed,"  he  used  to  say 
afterward.  He  agreed  to  arrange  the  letters  for 
book  publication,  revising  and  rewriting  where  neces- 
sary, and  went  back  to  Washington  well  pleased. 
He  did  not  realize  that  his  agreement  with  Bliss 
marked  the  beginning  of  one  of  the  most  notable 
publishing  connections  in  American  literary  history. 


XXVIII 

OLIVIA  LANGDON.      WORK  ON  THE    " INNOCENTS" 

/^ERTAINLY  this  was  a  momentous  period  in 
^^  Mark  Twain's  life.  It  was  a  time  of  great 
events,  and  among  them  was  one  which  presently 
would  come  to  mean  more  to  him  than  all  the  rest — 
the  beginning  of  his  acquaintance  with  Olivia 
Langdon. 

One  evening  in  late  December  when  Samuel 
Clemens  had  come  to  New  York  to  visit  his  old 
Quaker  City  room-mate,  Dan  Slote,  he  found  there 
other  ship  comrades,  including  Jack  Van  Nostrand 
and  Charlie  Langdon.  It  was  a  joyful  occasion,  but 
one  still  happier  followed  it.  Young  Langdon's 
father  and  sister  Olivia  were  in  New  York,  and  an 
evening  or  two  later  the  boy  invited  his  distinguished 
Quaker  City  shipmate  to  dine  with  them  at  the  old 
St.  Nicholas  Hotel.  We  may  believe  that  Samuel 
Clemens  went  willingly  enough.  He  had  never  for- 
gotten the  September  day  in  the  Bay  of  Smyrna 
when  he  had  first  seen  the  sweet-faced  miniature — 
now,  at  last  he  looked  upon  the  reality. 

Long  afterward  he  said:  "It  was  forty  years  ago. 
From  that  day  to  this  she  has  never  been  out  of  my 
mind." 

169 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Charles  Dickens  gave  a  reading  that  night  at 
Steinway  Hall.  The  Langdons  attended,  and  Sam- 
uel Clemens  with  them.  He  recalled  long  after  that 
Dickens  wore  a  black  velvet  coat  with  a  fiery-red 
flower  in  his  buttonhole,  and  that  he  read  the  storm 
scene  from  David  Copperfield — the  death  of  James 
Steerforth;  but  he  remembered  still  more  clearly 
the  face  and  dress  and  the  slender,  girlish  figure  of 
Olivia  Langdon  at  his  side. 

Olivia  Langdon  was  twenty-two  years  old  at  this 
time,  delicate  as  the  miniature  he  had  seen,  though 
no  longer  in  the  fragile  health  of  her  girlhood. 
Gentle,  winning,  lovable,  she  was  the  family  idol, 
and  Samuel  Clemens  was  no  less  her  worshiper 
from  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting. 

Miss  Langdon,  on  her  part,  was  at  first  rather 
dazed  by  the  strange,  brilliant,  handsome  man,  so 
unlike  anything  she  had  known  before.  When  he 
had  gone,  she  had  the  feeling  that  something  like  a 
great  meteor  had  crossed  her  sky.  To  her  brother, 
who  was  eager  for  her  good  opinion  of  his  celebrity, 
she  admitted  her  admiration,  if  not  her  entire  ap- 
proval. Her  father  had  no  doubts.  With  a  keen 
sense  of  humor  and  a  deep  knowledge  of  men,  Jervis 
Langdon  was  from  that  first  evening  the  devoted 
champion  of  Mark  Twain.  Clemens  saw  Miss  Lang- 
don again  during  the  holidays,  and  by  the  week's 
end  he  had  planned  to  visit  Elmira — soon.  But 
fate  managed  differently.  He  was  not  to  see  Elmira 
for  the  better  part  of  a  year. 

He  returned  to  his  work  in  Washington — the  prep- 
aration of  the  book  and  his  newspaper  correspond- 
170 


OLIVIA   LANGDON 

ence.  It  was  in  connection  with  the  latter  that 
he  first  met  General  Grant,  then  not  yet  President. 
The  incident,  characteristic  of  both  men,  is  worth 
remembering.  Mark  Twain  had  called  by  permis- 
sion, elated  with  the  prospect  of  an  interview.  But 
when  he  looked  into  the  square,  smileless  face  of  the 
soldier  he  found  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
without  anything  particular  to  say.  Grant  nodded 
slightly  and  waited.  His  caller  wished  something 
would  happen.  It  did.  His  inspiration  returned. 

"General,"  he  said,  "I  seem  to  be  slightly 
embarrassed.  Are  you?" 

Grant's  severity  broke  up  in  laughter.  There 
were  no  further  difficulties. 

Work  on  the  book  did  not  go  so  well.  There 
were  many  distractions  in  Washington,  and  Clem- 
ens did  not  like  the  climate  there.  Then  he  found 
the  Alia  had  copyrighted  his  letters  and  were  reluc- 
tant to  allow  him  to  use  them.  He  decided  to  sail 
at  once  for  San  Francisco.  If  he  could  arrange  the 
Alia  matter,  he  would  finish  his  work  there.  He 
did,  in  fact,  carry  out  this  plan,  and  all  difficulties 
vanished  on  his  arrival.  His  old  friend  Colonel 
McComb  obtained  for  him  free  use  of  the  Alia 
letters.  The  way  was  now  clear  for  his  book.  His 
immediate  need  of  funds,  however,  induced  him  to 
lecture.  In  May  he  wrote  Bliss: 

I  lectured  here  on  the  trip  (the  Quaker  City  excursion) 
the  other  night;  $1,600  in  gold  in  the  house;  every  seat 
taken  and  paid  for  before  night. 

He  settled  down  to  work  now  with  his  usual 
171 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK  VTWAIN 

energy,  editing  and  rewriting,  and  in  two  months 
had  the  big  manuscript  ready  for  delivery. 

Mark  Twain's  friends  urged  him  to  delay  his  re- 
turn to  "the  States"  long  enough  to  make  a  lecture 
tour  through  California  and  Nevada.  He  must  give 
his  new  lecture,  they  told  him,  to  his  old  friends. 
He  agreed,  and  was  received  at  Virginia  City,  Car- 
son, and  elsewhere  like  a  returning  conqueror.  He 
lectured  again  in  San  Francisco  just  before  sailing. 

The  announcement  of  his  lecture  was  highly  orig- 
inal. It  was  a  hand-bill  supposed  to  have  been 
issued  by  the  foremost  citizens  of  San  Francisco,  a 
mock  protest  against  his  lecture,  urging  him  to  re- 
turn to  New  York  without  inflicting  himself  on 
them  again.  On  the  same  bill  was  printed  his  reply. 
In  it  he  said: 

I  will  torment  the  people  if  I  want  to.  It  only  costs 
them  $i  apiece,  and,  if  they  can't  stand  it,  what  do  they 
stay  here  for? 

He  promised  positively  to  sail  on  July  6th  if  they 
would  let  him  talk  just  this  once. 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  of  this  drollery  on  the 
bill,  which  ended  with  the  announcement  that  he 
would  appear  at  the  Mercantile  Library  on  July  ad. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  place  was  jammed 
on  that  evening.  It  was  probably  the  greatest  lect- 
ure event  San  Francisco  has  ever  known.  Four 
days  later,  July  6,  1868,  Mark  Twain  sailed,  via 
Aspinwall,  for  New  York,  and  on  the  28th  delivered 
the  manuscript  of  The  Innocents  Abroad,  or  the  New 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  to  his  Hartford  publisher. 
172 


XXIX 

THE   TISIT  TO   ELMIRA  AND  ITS   CONSEQUENCES 

OAMUEL  CLEMENS  now  decided  to  pay  his 
O  long-deferred  visit  to  the  Langdon  home  in  El- 
mira.  Through  Charlie  Langdon  he  got  the  invita- 
tion renewed,  and  for  a  glorious  week  enjoyed  the 
generous  hospitality  of  the  beautiful  Langdon  home 
and  the  society  of  fair  Olivia  Langdon — Livy,  as 
they  called  her — realizing  more  and  more  that  for 
him  there  could  never  be  any  other  woman  in  the 
world.  He  spoke  no  word  of  this  to  her,  but  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  when  his  visit  would  end  he 
relieved  himself  to  Charlie  Langdon,  much  to  the 
young  man's  alarm.  Greatly  as  he  admired  Mark 
Twain  himself,  he  did  not  think  him,  or,  indeed,  any 
man,  good  enough  for  "Livy,"  whom  he  considered 
little  short  of  a  saint.  Clemens  was  to  take  a  train 
that  evening,  but  young  Langdon  said,  when  he 
recovered : 

"Look  here,  Clemens,  there's  a  train  in  half  an 
hour.  I'll  help  you  catch  it.  Don't  wait  until  to- 
night; go  now!" 

Mark  Twain  shook  his  head. 

"No,  Charlie,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle  drawl.     "I 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

want  to  enjoy  your  hospitality  a  little  longer.  I 
promise  to  be  circumspect,  and  I'll  go  to-night." 

That  night  after  dinner,  when  it  was  time  to  take 
the  train,  a  light  two-seated  wagon  was  at  the  gate. 
Young  Langdon  and  his  guest  took  the  back  seat, 
which,  for  some  reason,  had  not  been  locked  in  its 
place.  The  horse  started  with  a  quick  forward 
spring,  and  the  seat  with  its  two  occupants  de- 
scribed a  circle  and  landed  with  force  on  the  cobbled 
street. 

Neither  passenger  was  seriously  hurt — only  dazed 
a  little  for  the  moment.  But  to  Mark  Twain  there 
came  a  sudden  inspiration.  Here  was  a  chance  to 
prolong  his  visit.  When  the  Langdon  household 
gathered  with  restoratives,  he  did  not  recover  at 
once,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  supported  to  an 
arm-chair  for  further  remedies.  Livy  Langdon 
showed  especial  anxiety. 

He  was  not  allowed  to  go,  now,  of  course;  he  must 
stay  until  it  was  certain  that  his  recovery  was  com- 
plete. Perhaps  he  had  been  internally  injured.  His 
visit  was  prolonged  two  weeks,  two  weeks  of  pure 
happiness,  and  when  he  went  away  he  had  fully 
resolved  to  win  Livy  Langdon  for  his  wife. 

Mark  Twain  now  went  to  Hartford  to  look  after 
his  book  proofs,  and  there  for  the  first  time  met  the 
Rev.  Joseph  H.  Twichell,  who  would  become  his 
closest  friend.  The  two  men,  so  different  in  many 
ways,  always  had  the  fondest  admiration  for  each 
other;  each  recognized  in  the  other  great  courage, 
humanity,  and  sympathy.  Clemens  would  gladly 


A     SUCCESSFUL    ACCIDENT 


THE   VISIT   TO   ELMIRA 

have  remained  in  Hartford  that  winter.  Twichell 
presented  him  to  many  congenial  people,  including 
Charles  Dudley  Warner,  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  and 
other  writing  folk.  But  flattering  lecture  offers  were 
made  him,  and  he  could  no  longer  refuse. 

He  called  his  new  lecture  "The  Vandal  Abroad," 
it  being  chapters  from  the  forthcoming  book,  and  it 
was  a  great  success  everywhere.  His  houses  were 
crowded;  the  newspapers  were  enthusiastic.  His 
delivery  was  described  as  a  "long, monotonous  drawl, 
with  fun  invariably  coming  in  at  the  end  of  a  sen- 
tence— after  a  pause."  He  began  to  be  recognized 
everywhere — to  have  great  popularity.  People  came 
out  on  the  street  to  see  him  pass. 

Many  of  his  lecture  engagements  were  in  central 
New  York,  no  great  distance  from  Elmira.  He  had 
a  standing  invitation  to  visit  the  Langdon  home, 
and  went  when  he  could.  His  courtship,  however, 
was  not  entirely  smooth.  Much  as  Mr.  Langdon 
honored  his  gifts  and  admired  him  personally,  he 
feared  that  his  daughter,  who  had  known  so  little  of 
life  and  the  outside  world,  and  the  brilliant  traveler, 
lecturer,  author,  might  not  find  happiness  in  mar- 
riage. Many  absurd  stories  have  been  told  of 
Mark  Twain's  first  interview  with  Jervis  Langdon 
on  this  subject,  but  these  are  without  foundation. 
It  was  an  earnest  discussion  on  both  sides,  and  left 
Samuel  Clemens  rather  crestfallen,  though  not  with- 
out hope.  More  than  once  the  subject  was  dis- 
cussed between  the  two  men  that  winter  as  the  lect- 
urer came  and  went,  his  fame  always  growing.  In 
time  the  Langdon  household  had  grown  to  feel  that 


THE    BOYS1    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

he  belonged  to  them.    It  would  be  going  only  a  step 
further  to  make  him  really  one  of  the  family. 

There  was  no  positive  engagement  at  first,  for  it 
was  agreed  between  Clemens  and  Jervis  Langdon 
that  letters  should  be  sent  by  Mr.  Langdon  to  those 
who  had  known  his  would-be  son-in-law  earlier,  with 
inquiries  as  to  his  past  conduct  and  general  charac- 
ter. It  was  a  good  while  till  answers  to  these  came, 
and  when  they  arrived  Samuel  Clemens  was  on  hand 
to  learn  the  result.  Mr.  Langdon  had  a  rather  sol- 
emn look  when  they  were  alone  together. 

Clemens  asked,  "You've  heard  from  those  gen- 
tlemen out  there?" 

"Yes,  and  from  another  gentleman  I  wrote  to 
concerning  you." 

"They  don't  appear  to  have  been  very  enthusi- 
astic, from  your  manner." 

"Well,  yes,  some  of  them  were." 

"I  suppose  I  may  ask  what  particular  form  their 
emotion  took." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes;  they  agree  unanimously  that  you 
are  a  brilliant,  able  man — a  man  with  a  future,  and 
that  you  would  make  about  the  worst  husband  on 
record." 

The  applicant  had  a  forlorn  look.  "There  is 
nothing  very  evasive  about  that,"  he  said. 

Langdon  reflected. 

"Haven't  you  any  other  friend  that  you  could 
suggest?" 

"Apparently  none  whose  testimony  would  be 
valuable." 

Jervis  Langdon  held  out  his  hand. 
176 


THE   VISIT   TO   ELMIRA 

"You  have  at  least  one,"  he  said.  "I  believe  in 
you.  I  know  you  better  than  they  do." 

The  engagement  of  Samuel  Langhorne  Clemens 
and  Olivia  Lewis  Langdon  was  ratified  next  day, 
February  4,  1869.  To  Jane  Clemens  her  son  wrote: 
"She  is  a  little  body,  but  she  hasn't  her  peer  in 
Christendom." 


XXX 

THE   NEW  BOOK  AND  A  WEDDING 

CLEMENS  closed  his  lecture  tour  in  March  with 
v->  a  profit  of  something  more  than  eight  thousand 
dollars.  He  had  intended  to  make  a  spring  tour  of 
California,  but  went  to  Elmira  instead.  The  revised 
proofs  of  his  book  were  coming  now,  and  he  and 
gentle  Livy  Langdon  read  them  together.  Samuel 
Clemens  realized  presently  that  the  girl  he  had 
chosen  had  a  delicate  literary  judgment.  She  be- 
came all  at  once  his  editor,  a  position  she  held  until 
her  death.  Her  refining  influence  had  much  to  do 
with  Mark  Twain's  success,  then  and  later,  and  the 
world  owes  her  a  debt  of  gratitude.  Through  that 
first  pleasant  summer  these  two  worked  at  the 
proofs  and  planned  for  their  future,  and  were  very 
happy  indeed. 

It  was  about  the  end  of  July  when  the  big  book 
appeared  at  last,  and  its  success  was  startling. 
Nothing  like  it  had  ever  been  known  before.  Mark 
Twain's  name  seemed  suddenly  to  be  on  every 
tongue — his  book  in  everybody's  hands.  From  one 
end  of  the  country  to  the  other,  readers  were  hailing 
him  as  the  greatest  humorist  and  descriptive  writer 
of  modern  times.  By  the  first  of  the  year  more  than 
178 


THE  NEW  BOOK  AND  A  WEDDING 

thirty  thousand  volumes  had  been  sold.  It  was  a 
book  of  travel;  its  lowest  price  was  three  and  a  half 
dollars;  the  record  has  not  been  equaled  since. 
In  England  also  large  editions  had  been  issued,  and 
translations  into  foreign  languages  were  under  way. 
It  was  and  is  a  great  book,  because  it  is  a  human 
»book — a  book  written  straight  from  the  heart. 

If  Mark  Twain  had  not  been  famous  before,  he 
was  so  now.  Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  if  any  other 
American  author  was  so  widely  known  and  read  as 
the  author  of  The  Innocents  Abroad  during  that  first 
half-year  after  its  publication. 

Yet  for  some  reason  he  still  did  not  regard  him- 
self as  a  literary  man.  He  was  a  journalist,  and 
began  to  look  about  for  a  paper  which  he  could  buy 
— his  idea  being  to  establish  a  business  and  a  home. 
Through  Mr.  Langdon's  assistance,  he  finally  ob- 
tained an  interest  in  the  Buffalo  Express,  and  the 
end  of  the  year  1869  found  him  established  as  its 
associate  editor,  though  still  lecturing  here  and 
there,  because  his  wedding-day  was  near  at  hand 
and  there  must  be  no  lack  of  funds. 

It  was  the  26.  of  February,  1870,  that  Samuel 
Clemens  and  Olivia  Langdon  were  married.  A  few 
days  before,  he  sat  down  one  night  and  wrote  to 
Jim  Gillis,  away  out  in  the  Tuolumne  Hills,  and 
told  him  of  all  his  good  fortune,  recalling  their  days 
at  Angel's  Camp,  and  the  absurd  frog  story,  which 
he  said  had  been  the  beginning  of  his  happiness.  In 
the  five  years  since  then  he  had  traveled  a  long  way, 
but  he  had  not  forgotten. 

On  the  morning  of  his  wedding-day  Mark  Twain 
179 


THE    BOYS1    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

received  from  his  publisher  a  check  for  four  thousand 
dollars,  his  profit  from  three  months'  sales  of  the 
book,  a  handsome  sum. 

The  wedding  was  mainly  a  family  affair.  Twich- 
ell  and  his  wife  came  over  from  Hartford — Twichell 
to  assist  Thomas  K.  Beecher  in  performing  the  cer- 
emony. Jane  Clemens  could  not  come,  nor  Orion 
and  his  wife;  but  Pamela,  a  widow  now,  and  her 
daughter  Annie,  grown  to  a  young  lady,  arrived  from 
St.  Louis.  Not  more  than  one  hundred  guests  gath- 
ered in  the  stately  Langdon  parlors  that  in  future 
would  hold  so  much  history  for  Samuel  Clemens  and 
Olivia  Langdon — so  much  of  the  story  of  life  and 
death  that  thus  made  its  beginning  there.  Then,  at 
seven  in  the  evening,  they  were  married,  and  the  bride 
danced  with  her  father,  and  the  Rev.  Thomas  Beecher 
declared  she  wore  the  longest  gloves  he  had  ever  seen. 

It  was  the  next  afternoon  that  the  wedding-party 
set  out  for  Buffalo.  Through  a  Mr.  Slee,  an  agent  of 
Mr.  Langdon's,  Clemens  had  engaged,  as  he  sup- 
posed, a  boarding-house,  quiet  and  unpretentious,  for 
he  meant  to  start  his  married  life  modestly.  Jervis 
Langdon  had  a  plan  of  his  own  for  his  daughter,  but 
Clemens  had  received  no  inkling  of  it,  and  had  full 
faith  in  the  letter  which  Slee  had  written,  saying  that 
a  choice  and  inexpensive  boarding-house  had  been 
secured.  When,  about  nine  o'clock  that  night,  the 
party  reached  Buffalo,  they  found  Mr.  Slee  waiting 
at  the  station.  There  was  snow,  and  sleighs  had 
been  ordered.  Soon  after  starting,  the  sleigh  of  the 
bride  and  groom  fell  behind  and  drove  about  rather 
aimlessly,  apparently  going  nowhere  in  particular. 
180 


THE  NEW   BOOK  AND  A  WEDDING 

This  disturbed  the  groom,  who  thought  they  should 
arrive  first  and  receive  their  guests.  He  criticized 
Slee  for  selecting  a  house  that  was  so  hard  to  find, 
and  when  they  turned  at  last  into  Delaware  Ave- 
nue, Buffalo's  finest  street,  and  stopped  before  a 
handsome  house,  he  was  troubled  concerning  the 
richness  of  the  locality. 

They  were  on  the  steps  when  the  door  opened 
and  a  perfect  fairyland  of  lights  and  decoration  was 
revealed  within.  The  friends  who  had  gone  ahead 
came  out  with  greetings  to  lead  in  the  bride  and 
groom.  Servants  hurried  forward  to  take  bags  and 
wraps.  They  were  ushered  inside;  they  were  led 
through  beautiful  rooms,  all  newly  appointed  and 
garnished.  The  bridegroom  was  dazed,  unable  to 
understand  the  meaning  of  it  all — the  completeness 
of  their  possession.  At  last  his  young  wife  put  her 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Don't  you  understand,  Youth?"  she  said — that 
was  always  her  name  for  him.  "Don't  you  under- 
stand? It  is  ours,  all  ours — everything — a  gift  from 
father." 

But  still  he  could  not  quite  grasp  it,  and  Mr. 
Langdon  brought  a  little  box  and,  opening  it,  handed 
them  the  deeds. 

Nobody  quite  remembers  what  was  the  first  re- 
mark that  Samuel  Clemens  made,  but  either  then  or 
a  little  later  he  said: 

"Mr.  Langdon,  whenever  you  are  in  Buffalo,  if 
.  it's  twice  a  year,  come  right  here.    Bring  your  bag 
and  stay  overnight  if  you  want  to.    It  sha'n't  cost 
you  a  cent." 

J3  181 


XXXI 

MARK   TWAIN   IN    BUFFALO 

MARK  TWAIN  remained  less  than  two  years  in 
Buffalo — a  period  of  much  affliction. 
In  the  beginning,  prospects  could  hardly  have  been 
brighter.  His  beautiful  home  seemed  perfect.  At 
the  office  he  found  work  to  his  hand,  and  enjoyed  it. 
His  co-editor,  J.  W.  Lamed,  who  sat  across  the  table 
from  him,  used  to  tell  later  how  Mark  enjoyed  his 
work  as  he  went  along — the  humor  of  it — frequently 
laughing  as  some  new  absurdity  came  into  his  mind. 
He  was  not  very  regular  in  his  arrivals,  but  he 
worked  long  hours  and  turned  in  a  vast  amount  of 
"copy" — skits,  sketches,  editorials,  and  comments  of 
a  varied  sort.  Not  all  of  it  was  humorous;  he  would 
stop  work  any  time  on  an  amusing  sketch  to  at- 
tack some  abuse  or  denounce  an  injustice,  and  he 
did  it  in  scorching  words  that  made  offenders  pause. 
Once,  when  two  practical  jokers  had  sent  in  a  mar- 
riage notice  of  persons  not  even  contemplating  mat- 
rimony, he  wrote: 

This  deceit  has  been  practised  maliciously  by  a  couple 
of  men  whose  small  souls  will  escape  through  their  pores 
some  day  if  they  do  not  varnish  their  hides. 
182 


MARK   TWAIN   IN    BUFFALO 

In  May  he  considerably  increased  his  income  by 
undertaking  a  department  called  "Memoranda"  for 
the  new  Galaxy  magazine.  The  outlook  was  now  so 
promising  that  to  his  lecture  agent,  James  Redpath, 
he  wrote: 

DEAR  RED:  I'm  not  going  to  lecture  any  more  forever. 
I've  got  things  ciphered  down  to  a  fraction  now.  I  know 
just  about  what  it  will  cost  to  live,  and  I  can  make  the 
money  without  lecturing.  Therefore,  old  man,  count  me 
out. 

And  in  a  second  letter : 

I  guess  I'm  out  of  the  field  permanently.  Have  got  a 
lovely  wife,  a  lovely  house  bewitchingly  furnished,  a 
lovely  carriage,  and  a  coachman  whose  style  and  dignity 
are  simply  awe-inspiring,  nothing  less;  and  I'm  making 
more  money  than  necessary,  by  considerable,  and  there- 
fore why  crucify  myself  nightly  on  the  platform!  The 
subscriber  will  have  to  be  excused,  for  the  present  season, 
at  least. 

The  little  household  on  Delaware  Avenue  was  in- 
deed a  happy  place  during  those  early  months. 
Neither  Clemens  nor  his  wife  in  those  days  cared 
much  for  society,  preferring  the  comfort  of  their 
own  home.  Once  when  a  new  family  moved  into  a 
house  across  the  way  they  postponed  calling  until 
they  felt  ashamed.  Clemens  himself  called  first. 
One  Sunday  morning  he  noticed  smoke  pouring 
from  an  upper  window  of  their  neighbor's  house. 
The  occupants,  seated  on  the  veranda,  evidently  did 
not  suspect  their  danger.  Clemens  stepped  across 
to  the  gate  and,  bowing  politely,  said: 
183 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

"My  name  is  Clemens;  we  ought  to  have  called 
on  you  before,  and  I  beg  your  pardon  for  intruding 
now  in  this  informal  way,  but  your  house  is  on  fire." 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  life  seemed  at  its  best 
that  shadows  gathered.  Jervis  Langdon  had  never 
accepted  his  son-in-law's  playful  invitation  to  "bring 
his  bag  and  stay  overnight,"  and  now  the  time  for  it 
was  past.  In  the  spring  his  health  gave  way.  Mrs. 
Clemens,  who  adored  him,  went  to  Elmira  to  be  at 
his  bedside.  Three  months  of  lingering  illness 
brought  the  end.  His  death  was  a  great  blow  to 
Mrs.  Clemens,  and  the  strain  of  watching  had  been 
very  hard.  Her  own  health,  never  robust,  became 
poor.  A  girlhood  friend,  who  came  to  cheer  her  with 
a  visit,  was  taken  down  with  typhoid  fever.  An- 
other long  period  of  anxiety  and  nursing  ended  with 
the  young  woman's  death  in  the  Clemens  home. 

To  Mark  Twain  and  his  wife  it  seemed  that  their 
bright  days  were  over.  The  arrival  of  little  Langdon 
Clemens,  in  November,  brought  happiness,  but  his 
delicate  hold  on  life  was  so  uncertain  that  the  burden 
of  anxiety  grew. 

Amid  so  many  distractions  Clemens  found  his 
work  hard.  His  "  Memoranda  "  department  in  the 
Galaxy  must  be  filled  and  be  bright  and  readable. 
His  work  at  the  office  could  not  be  neglected.  Then, 
too,  he  had  made  a  contract  with  Bliss  for  another 
book — Roughing  It — and  he  was  trying  to  get  started 
on  that. 

He  began  to  chafe  under  the  relentless  demands 
of  the  magazine  and  newspaper.  Finally  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  He  sold  his  interest  in  the 
184 


MARK   TWAIN    IN    BUFFALO 

Express,  at  a  loss,  and  gave  up  the  "  Memoranda." 
In  the  closing  number  (April,  1871)  he  said: 

For  the  last  eight  months,  with  hardly  an  interval,  I 
have  had  for  my  fellows  and  comrades,  night  and  day, 
doctors  and  watchers  of  the  sick!  During  these  eight 
months  death  has  taken  two  members  of  my  home  circle 
and  malignantly  threatened  two  others.  All  this  I  have 
experienced,  yet  all  the  time  have  been  under  contract  to 
furnish  humorous  matter,  once  a  month,  for  this  mag- 
azine. .  .  .  To  be  a  pirate  on  a  low  salary  and  with  no 
share  of  the  profits  in  the  business  used  to  be  my  idea  of 
an  uncomfortable  occupation,  but  I  have  other  views 
now.  To  be  a  monthly  humorist  in  a  cheerless  time  is 
drearier. 


XXXII 

AT  WORK  ON  "ROUGHING  IT" 

*T*HE  Clemens  family  now  went  to  Elmira,  to 
*  Quarry  Farm — a  beautiful  hilltop  place,  over- 
looking the  river  and  the  town — the  home  of  Mrs. 
Clemens's  sister,  Mrs.  Theodore  Crane.  They  did 
not  expect  to  return  to  Buffalo,  and  the  house  there 
was  offered  for  sale.  For  them  the  sunlight  had  gone 
out  of  it. 

Matters  went  better  at  Quarry  Farm.  The  in- 
valids gained  strength ;  work  on  the  book  progressed. 
The  Clemenses  that  year  fell  in  love  with  the  place 
that  was  to  mean  so  much  to  them  in  the  many 
summers  to  come. 

Mark  Twain  was  not  altogether  satisfied,  however, 
with  his  writing.  He  was  afraid  it  was  not  up  to  his 
literary  standard.  His  spirits  were  at  low  ebb  when 
his  old  first  editor,  Joe  Goodman,  came  East  and 
stopped  off  at  Elmira.  Clemens  hurried  him  out  to 
the  farm,  and,  eagerly  putting  the  chapters  of  Rough- 
ing It  into  his  hands,  asked  him  to  read  them.  Good- 
man seated  himself  comfortably  by  a  window,  while 
the  author  went  over  to  a  table  and  pretended  to 
write,  but  was  really  watching  Goodman,  who  read 
page  after  page  solemnly  and  with  great  deliber- 
186 


AT   WORK   ON   "ROUGHING   IT' 

ation.     Presently  Mark  Twain  could  stand  it  no 
longer.    He  threw  down  his  pen,  exclaiming: 

' '  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  I've  been  writing  nothing 
but  rot.  You  have  sat  there  all  this  time  reading 
without  a  smile — but  I  am  not  wholly  to  blame.  I 
have  been  trying  to  write  a  funny  book  with  dead 
people  and  sickness  everywhere.  Oh,  Joe,  I  wish  I 
could  die  myself!" 

"Mark,"  said  Goodman,  "I  was  reading  critically, 
not  for  amusement,  and  so  far  as  I  have  read,  and 
can  judge,  this  is  one  of  the  best  things  you  have 
ever  written.  I  have  found  it  perfectly  absorbing. 
You  are  doing  a  great  book!" 

That  was  enough.  Clemens  knew  that  Goodman 
never  spoke  idly  of  such  matters.  The  author  of 
Roughing  It  was  a  changed  man — full  of  enthusiasm, 
eager  to  go  on.  He  offered  to  pay  Goodman  a  salary 
to  stay  and  furnish  inspiration.  Goodman  declined 
the  salary,  but  remained  for  several  weeks,  and 
during  long  walks  which  the  two  friends  took  over 
the  hills  gave  advice,  recalled  good  material,  and 
was  a  great  help  and  comfort.  In  May,  Clemens 
wrote  to  Bliss  that  he  had  twelve  hundred  manu- 
script pages  of  the  new  book  written  and  was  turn- 
ing out  from  thirty  to  sixty-five  per  day.  He  was 
in  high  spirits.  The  family  health  had  improved — 
once  more  prospects  were  bright.  He  even  allowed 
Redpath  to  persuade  him  to  lecture  again  during 
the  coming  season.  Selling  his  share  of  the  Express 
at  a  loss  had  left  Mark  Twain  considerably  in  debt, 
and  lecture  profits  would  furnish  the  quickest 
means  of  payment. 

187 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

When  the  summer  ended  the  Clemens  family  took 
up  residence  in  Hartford,  Connecticut,  in  the  fine  old 
Hooker  house,  on  Forest  Street.  Hartford  held  many 
attractions  for  Mark  Twain.  His  publishers  were 
located  there,  also  it  was  the  home  of  a  distinguished 
group  of  writers,  and  of  the  Rev.  "Joe"  Twichell. 
Neither  Clemens  nor  his  wife  had  felt  that  they 
could  return  to  Buffalo.  The  home  there  was  sold 
— its  contents  packed  and  shipped.  They  did  not 
see  it  again. 

His  book  finished,  Mark  Twain  lectured  pretty 
steadily  that  winter,  often  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Boston,  which  was  lecture  headquarters.  Mark 
Twain  enjoyed  Boston.  In  Redpath's  office  one 
could  often  meet  and  "swap  stories"  with  Josh 
Billings  (Henry  W.  Shaw)  and  Petroleum  V.  Nasby 
(David  R.  Locke) — well-known  humorists  of  that 
day — while  in  the  strictly  literary  circle  there  were 
William  Dean  Howells,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  Bret 
Harte  (who  by  this  time  had  become  famous  and 
journeyed  eastward),  and  others  of  their  sort.  They 
were  all  young  and  eager  and  merry,  then,  and  they 
gathered  at  luncheons  in  snug  corners  and  talked 
gaily  far  into  the  dimness  of  winter  afternoons. 
Harte  had  been  immediately  accorded  a  high  place 
in  the  Boston  group.  Mark  Twain  as  a  strictly  lit- 
erary man  was  still  regarded  rather  doubtfully  by 
members  of  the  older  set — the  Brahmins,  as  they 
were  called — but  the  young  men  already  hailed  him 
joyfully,  reveling  in  the  fine,  fearless  humor  of  his 
writing,  his  wonderful  talk,  his  boundless  humanity. 


XXXIII 

IN  ENGLAND 

MARK  TWAIN  closed  his  lecture  season  in  Feb- 
ruary (1872),  and  during  the  same  month  his 
new  book,  Roughing  It,  came  from  the  press.  He 
disliked  the  lecture  platform,  and  he  felt  that  he 
could  now  abandon  it.  He  had  made  up  his  loss  in 
Buffalo  and  something  besides.  Furthermore,  the 
advance  sales  on  his  book  had  been  large. 

Roughing  It,  in  fact,  proved  a  very  successful  book. 
Like  The  Innocents  Abroad,  it  was  the  first  of  its 
kind,  fresh  in  its  humor  and  description,  true  in  its 
picture  of  the  frontier  life  he  had  known.  In  three 
months  forty  thousand  copies  had  been  sold,  and 
now,  after  more  than  forty  years,  it  is  still  a  popular 
book.  The  life  it  describes  is  all  gone — the  scenes 
are  changed.  It  is  a  record  of  a  vanished  time — a 
delightful  history — as  delightful  to-day  as  ever. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-two  was  an  event- 
ful year  for  Mark  Twain.  In  March  his  second 
child,  a  little  girl  whom  they  named  Susy,  was  born, 
and  three  months  later  the  boy,  Langdon,  died.  He 
had  never  been  really  strong,  and  a  heavy  cold  and 
diphtheria  brought  the  end. 

Clemens  did  little  work  that  summer.  He  took 
189 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

his  family  to  Saybrook,  Connecticut,  for  the  sea 
air,  and  near  the  end  of  August,  when  Mrs.  Clemens 
had  regained  strength  and  courage,  he  sailed  for 
England  to  gather  material  for  a  book  on  English 
life  and  customs.  He  felt  very  friendly  toward  the 
English,  who  had  been  highly  appreciative  of  his 
writings,  and  he  wished  their  better  acquaintance. 
He  gave  out  no  word  of  the  book  idea,  and  it  seems 
unlikely  that  any  one  in  England  ever  suspected  it. 
He  was  there  three  months,  and  beyond  some  note- 
book memoranda  made  during  the  early  weeks  of 
his  stay  he  wrote  not  a  line.  He  was  too  delighted 
with  everything  to  write  a  book — a  book  of  his  kind. 
In  letters  home  he  declared  the  country  to  be  as 
beautiful  as  fairyland.  By  all  classes  attentions  were 
showered  upon  him — honors  such  as  he  had  never 
received  even  in  America.  W.  D.  Howells  writes:1 

In  England  rank,  fashion,  and  culture  rejoiced  in  him. 
Lord  mayors,  lord  chief  justices,  and  magnates  of  many 
kinds  were  his  hosts;  he  was  desired  in  country  houses, 
and  his  bold  genius  captivated  the  favor  of  periodicals 
that  spurned  the  rest  of  our  nation. 

He  could  not  make  a  book — a  humorous  book — 
out  of  these  people  and  their  country;  he  was  too 
fond  of  them. 

England  fairly  reveled  in  Mark  Twain.  At  one 
of  the  great  banquets,  a  roll  of  the  distinguished 
guests  was  called,  and  the  names  properly  applauded. 
Mark  Twain,  busily  engaged  in  low  conversation 
with  his  neighbor,  applauded  without  listening,  vig- 

1  From  My  Mark  Twain,  by  W.  D.  Howells. 
190 


IN   ENGLAND 

orously  or  mildly,  as  the  others  led.  Finally  a  name 
was  followed  by  a  great  burst  of  long  and  vehement 
clapping.  This  must  be  some  very  great  person 
indeed,  and  Mark  Twain,  not  to  be  outdone  in  his 
approval,  stoutly  kept  his  hands  going  when  all 
others  had  finished. 

"Whose  name  was  that  we  were  just  applauding?" 
he  asked  of  his  neighbor. 

"Mark  Twain's." 

But  it  was  no  matter;  they  took  it  all  as  one  of 
his  jokes.  He  was  a  wonder  and  a  delight  to  them. 
Whatever  he  did  or  said  was  to  them  supremely 
amusing.  When,  on  one  occasion,  a  speaker  humor- 
ously referred  to  his  American  habit  of  carrying  a 
cotton  umbrella,  his  reply  that  he  did  so  "because 
it  was  the  only  kind  of  an  umbrella  that  an  English- 
man wouldn't  steal,"  was  repeated  all  over  England 
next  day  as  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  wit  since 
the  days  of  Swift. 

He  returned  to  America  at  the  end  of  November, 
promising  to  come  back  and  lecture  to  them  the 
following  year. 


XXXIV 

A  NEW   BOOK  AND  NEW  ENGLISH  TRIUMPHS 

BUT  if  Mark  Twain  could  find  nothing  to  write 
of  in  England,  he  found  no  lack  of  material  in 
America.  That  winter  in  Hartford,  with  Charles 
Dudley  Warner,  he  wrote  The  Gilded  Age.  The 
Warners  were  neighbors,  and  the  families  visited 
back  and  forth.  One  night  at  dinner,  when  the  two 
husbands  were  criticizing  the  novels  their  wives 
were  reading,  the  wives  suggested  that  their  author 
husbands  write  a  better  one.  The  challenge  was 
accepted.  On  the  spur  of  the  moment  Warner  and 
Clemens  agreed  that  they  would  write  a  book  to- 
gether, and  began  it  immediately. 

Clemens  had  an  idea  already  in  mind.  It  was  to 
build  a  romance  around  that  lovable  dreamer,  his 
mother's  cousin,  James  Lampton,  whom  the  reader 
will  recall  from  an  earlier  chapter.  Without  delay 
he  set  to  work  and  soon  completed  the  first  three 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  pages  of  the  new  story. 
Warner  came  over  and,  after  listening  to  its  reading, 
went  home  and  took  up  the  story.  In  two  months 
the  novel  was  complete,  Warner  doing  most  of  the 
romance,  Mark  Twain  the  character  parts.  War- 
192 


A   PAGE   FROM  THE   MANUSCRIPT   OF   "THE  GILDED  AGE." 
THE   END   OF   MARK  TWAIN'S   FIRST  INSTALMENT 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

ner's  portion  was  probably  pure  fiction,  but  Mark 
Twain's  chapters  were  full  of  history. 

Judge  Hawkins  and  wife  were  Mark  Twain's 
father  and  mother;  Washington  Hawkins,  his 
brother  Orion.  Their  doings,  with  those  of  James 
Lampton  as  Colonel  Sellers,  were,  of  course,  elabo- 
rated, but  the  story  of  the  Tennessee  land,  as  told 
in  that  book,  is  very  good  history  indeed.  Laura 
Hawkins,  however,  was  only  real  in  the  fact  that 
she  bore  the  name  of  Samuel  Clemens's  old  play- 
mate. The  Gilded  Age,  published  later  in  the  year, 
was  well  received  and  sold  largely.  The  character 
of  Colonel  Sellers  at  once  took  a  place  among  the 
great  fiction  characters  of  the  world,  and  is  probably 
the  best  known  of  any  American  creation.  His 
watchword,  "There's  millions  in  it!"  became  a 
byword. 

The  Clemenses  decided  to  build  in  Hartford.  They 
bought  a  plot  of  land  on  Farmington  Avenue,  in  the 
literary  neighborhood,  and  engaged  an  architect  and 
builder.  By  spring,  the  new  house  was  well  under 
way,  and,  matters  progressing  so  favorably,  the  owners 
decided  to  take  a  holiday  while  the  work  was  going 
on.  Clemens  had  been  eager  to  show  England  to  his 
wife;  so,  taking  little  Susy,  now  a  year  old,  they 
sailed  in  May,  to  be  gone  half  a  year. 

They  remained  for  a  time  in  London — a  period  of 
honors  and  entertainment.  If  Mark  Twain  had  been 
a  lion  on  his  first  visit,  he  was  hardly  less  than  roy- 
alty now.  His  rooms  at  the  Langham  Hotel  were 
like  a  court.  The  nation's  most  distinguished  men — 
among  them  Robert  Browning,  Sir  John  Millais, 
194 


A   NEW    BOOK 

Lord  Houghton,  and  Sir  Charles  Dilke — came  to  pay 
their  respects.  Authors  were  calling  constantly. 
Charles  Reade  and  Wilkie  Collins  could  not  get 
enough  of  Mark  Twain.  Reade  proposed  to  join 
with  him  in  writing  a  novel,  as  Warner  had  done. 
Lewis  Carroll  did  not  call,  being  too  timid,  but  they 
met  the  author  of  Alice  in  Wonderland  one  night  at 
a  dinner,  "the  shyest  full-grown  man,  except  Uncle 
Remus,  I  ever  saw,"  Mark  Twain  once  declared. 

Little  Susy  and  her  father  thrived  on  London  life, 
but  it  wore  on  Mrs.  Clemens.  At  the  end  of  July 
they  went  quietly  to  Edinburgh,  and  settled  at 
Veitch's  Hotel,  on  George  Street.  The  strain  of  Lon- 
don life  had  been  too  much  for  Mrs.  Clemens,  and 
her  health  became  poor.  Unacquainted  in  Edin- 
burgh, Clemens  only  remembered  that  Dr.  John 
Brown,  author  of  Rab  and  His  Friends,  lived  there. 
Learning  the  address,  he  walked  around  to  23  Rut- 
land Street,  and  made  himself  known.  Doctor 
Brown  came  forthwith,  and  Mrs.  Clemens  seemed 
better  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival. 

The  acquaintance  did  not  end  there.  For  a  month 
the  author  of  Rab  and  the  little  Clemens  family  were 
together  daily.  Often  they  went  with  him  to  make 
his  round  of  visits.  He  was  always  leaning  out  of 
the  carriage  to  look  at  dogs.  It  was  told  of  him  that 
once  when  he  suddenly  put  his  head  from  a  carriage 
window  he  dropped  back  with  a  disappointed  look. 

"Who  was  it?"  asked  his  companion.  "Some  one 
you  know?" 

"No,  a  dog  I  don't  know." 

Dr.  John  was  beloved  by  everybody  in  Scotland, 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

and  his  story  of  Rab  had  won  him  a  world-wide  fol- 
lowing. Children  adored  him.  Little  Susy  and  he 
were  playmates,  and  he  named  her  "Megalopis,"  a 
Greek  term,  suggested  by  her  great,  dark  eyes. 

Mark  Twain  kept  his  promise  to  lecture  to  a 
London  audience.  On  the  i3th  of  October,  in 
the  Queen's  Concert  Rooms,  Hanover  Square,  he 
gave  "Our  Fellow  Savages  of  the  Sandwich  Islands." 
The  house  was  packed.  Clemens  was  not  introduced. 
He  appeared  on  the  platform  in  evening  dress,  as- 
suming the  character  of  a  manager,  announcing  a 
disappointment.  Mr.  Clemens,  he  said,  had  fully 
expected  to  be  present.  He  paused,  and  loud  mur- 
murs arose  from  the  audience.  He  lifted  his  hand 
and  the  noise  subsided.  Then  he  added,  "I  am 
happy  to  say  that  Mark  Twain  is  present  and  will 
now  give  his  lecture."  The  audience  roared  its 
approval. 

He  continued  his  lectures  at  Hanover  Square 
through  the  week,  and  at  no  time  in  his  own  country 
had  he  won  such  a  complete  triumph.  He  was  the 
talk  of  the  streets.  The  papers  were  full  of  him. 
The  London  Times  declared  his  lectures  had  only 
whetted  the  public  appetite  for  more.  His  manager, 
George  Dolby  (formerly  manager  for  Charles  Dick- 
ens), urged  him  to  remain  and  continue  the  course 
through  the  winter.  Clemens  finally  agreed  that  he 
would  take  his  family  back  to  America  and  come 
back  himself  within  the  month.  This  plan  he  carried 
out.  Returning  to  London,  he  lectured  steadily  for 
two  months  in  the  big  Hanover  Square  rooms,  giving 
his  Roughing  It  address,  and  it  was  only  toward  the 
196 


A   NEW   BOOK 

end  that  his  audience  showed  any  sign  of  diminishing. 
There  is  probably  no  other  such  a  lecture  triumph 
on  record. 

Mark  Twain  was  at  the  pinnacle  of  his  first  glory : 
thirty-six,  in  full  health,  prosperous,  sought  by  the 
world's  greatest,  hailed  in  the  highest  places  almost 
as  a  king.  Tom  Sawyer's  dreams  of  greatness  had 
been  all  too  modest.  In  its  most  dazzling  moments 
his  imagination  had  never  led  him  so  far. 

14 


XXXV 

BEGINNING   "TOM   SAWYER*' 

IT  was  at  the  end  of  January,  1874,  when  Mark 
Twain  returned  to  America.  His  reception 
abroad  had  increased  his  prestige  at  home.  Howells 
and  Aldrich  came  over  from  Boston  to  tell  him  what 
a  great  man  he  had  become — to  renew  those  Boston 
days  of  three  years  before — to  talk  and  talk  of  all 
the  things  between  the  earth  and  sky.  And  Twichell 
came  in,  of  course,  and  Warner,  and  no  one  took 
account  of  time,  or  hurried,  or  worried  about  any- 
thing at  all. 

"We  had  two  such  days  as  the  aging  sun  no  longer 
shines  on  in  his  round,"  wrote  Howells,  long  after, 
and  he  tells  how  he  and  Aldrich  were  so  carried  away 
with  Clemens's  success  in  subscription  publication 
that  on  the  way  back  to  Boston  they  planned  a  book 
to  sell  in  that  way.  It  was  to  be  called  Twelve 
Memorable  Murders,  and  they  had  made  two  or 
three  fortunes  from  it  by  the  time  they  reached 
Boston. 

"But  the  project  ended  there.  We  never  killed  a 
single  soul,"  Howells  once  confessed  to  the  writer 
of  this  memoir. 

198 


FIRST   MANUSCRIPT   PAGE   OF   "TOM   SAWYER."      BEGUN   AS    A   PLAY 
ABOUT    1872.      "  AUNT   WINNY  "•  LATER   BECAME   "  AUNT   POLLY  " 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

At  Quarry  Farm  that  summer  Mark  Twain  began 
the  writing  of  The  Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer.  He 
had  been  planning  for  some  time  to  set  down  the 
story  of  those  far-off  days  along  the  river-front  at 
Hannibal,  with  John  Briggs,  Tom  Blankenship,  and 
the  rest  of  that  graceless  band,  and  now  in  the  cool 
luxury  of  a  little  study  which  Mrs.  Crane  had  built 
for  him  on  the  hillside  he  set  himself  to  spin  the 
fabric  of  his  youth.  The  study  was  a  delightful 
place  to  work.  It  was  octagonal  in  shape,  with 
windows  on  all  sides,  something  like  a  pilot-house. 
From  any  direction  the  breeze  could  come,  and  there 
were  fine  views.  To  Twichell  he  wrote : 

It  is  a  cozy  nest,  and  just  room  in  it  for  a  sofa,  table, 
and  three  or  four  chairs,  and  when  the  storm  sweeps  down 
the  remote  valley  and  the  lightning  flashes  behind  the 
hills  beyond,  and  the  rain  beats  on  the  roof  over  my  head, 
imagine  the  luxury  of  it ! 

He  worked  steadily  there  that  summer.  He  would 
begin  mornings,  soon  after  breakfast,  keeping  at  it 
until  nearly  dinner-time,  say  until  five  or  after,  for 
it  was  not  his  habit  to  eat  the  midday  meal.  Other 
members  of  the  family  did  not  venture  near  the 
place;  if  he  was  wanted  urgently,  a  horn  was  blown. 
His  work  finished,  he  would  light  a  cigar  and,  step- 
ping lightly  down  the  stone  flight  that  led  to  the 
house-level,  he  would  find  where  the  family  had 
assembled  and  read  to  them  his  day's  work.  Cer- 
tainly those  were  golden  days,  and  the  tale  of  Tom 
and  Huck  and  Joe  Harper  progressed.  To  Dr.  John 
Brown,  in  Scotland,  he  wrote: 
200 


BEGINNING   "TOM   SAWYER" 

I  have  been  writing  fifty  pages  of  manuscript  a  day, 
on  an  average,  for  some  time  now, ....  and  consequently 
have  been  so  wrapped  up  in  it  and  dead  to  everything 
else  that  I  have  fallen  mighty  short  in  letter-writing. 

But  the  inspiration  of  Tom  and  Huck  gave  out 
when  the  tale  was  half  finished,  or  perhaps  it  gave 
way  to  a  new  interest.  News  came  one  day  that  a 
writer  in  San  Francisco,  without  permission,  had 
dramatized  The  Gilded  Age,  and  that  it  was  being 
played  by  John  T.  Raymond,  an  actor  of  much 
power.  Mark  Twain  had  himself  planned  to  dram- 
atize the  character  of  Colonel  Sellers  and  had  taken 
out  dramatic  copyright.  He  promptly  stopped  the 
California  production,  then  wrote  the  dramatist  a 
friendly  letter,  and  presently  bought  the  play  of 
him,  and  set  in  to  rewrite  it.  It  proved  a  great  suc- 
cess. Raymond  played  it  for  several  years.  Colonel 
Sellers  on  the  stage  became  fully  as  popular  as  in 
the  book,  and  very  profitable  indeed. 


XXXVI 

THE  NEW  HOME 

THE  new  home  in  Hartford  was  ready  that  au- 
tumn— the  beautiful  house  finished,  or  nearly 
finished,  the  handsome  furnishings  in  place.  It  was 
a  lovely  spot.  There  were  trees  and  grass — a  green, 
shady  slope  that  fell  away  to  a  quiet  stream.  The 
house  itself,  quite  different  from  the  most  of  the 
houses  of  that  day,  had  many  wings  and  balconies, 
and  toward  the  back  a  great  veranda  that  looked 
down  the  shaded  slope.  The  kitchen  was  not  at  the 
back.  As  Mark  Twain  was  unlike  any  other  man 
that  ever  lived,  so  his  house  was  not  like  other 
houses.  When  asked  why  he  built  the  kitchen  tow- 
ard the  street,  he  said: 

"So  the  servants  can  see  the  circus  go  by  without 
running  into  the  front  yard." 

But  this  was  probably  his  afterthought.  The 
kitchen  wing  extended  toward  Farmington  Avenue, 
but  it  was  a  harmonious  detail  of  the  general  plan. 

Many  frequenters  have  tried  to  express  the  charm 
of  Mark  Twain's  household.  Few  have  succeeded, 
for  it  lay  not  in  the  house  itself,  nor  in  its  furnish- 
ings, beautiful  as  these  things  were,  but  in  the  per- 
sonality of  its  occupants — the  daily  round  of  their 
202 


ONE    VIEW    OF    THE    HARTFORD    HOUSE 


MRS.   CLEMENS   AND   THE   CHILDREN,    HARTFORD,    CONN.,    1884 


THE   NEW    HOME 

lives — the  atmosphere  which  they  unconsciously  cre- 
ated. From  its  wide  entrance-hall  and  tiny,  jewel- 
like  conservatory  below  to  the  billiard-room  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  it  seemed  perfectly  appointed, 
serenely  ordered,  and  full  of  welcome.  The  home  of 
one  of  the  most  unusual  and  unaccountable  person- 
alities in  the  world  was  filled  with  gentleness  and 
peace.  It  was  Mrs.  Clemens  who  was  chiefly  respon- 
sible. She  was  no  longer  the  half-timid,  inexperi- 
enced girl  he  had  married.  Association,  study,  and 
travel  had  brought  her  knowledge  and  confidence. 
When  the  great  ones  of  the  world  came  to  visit 
America's  most  picturesque  literary  figure,  she  gave 
welcome  to  them,  and  filled  her  place  at  his  side 
with  such  sweet  grace  that  those  who  came  to  pay 
their  dues  to  him  often  returned  to  pay  still  greater 
devotion  to  his  companion.  William  Dean  Howells, 
so  often  a  visitor  there,  once  said  to  the  writer: 

"Words  cannot  express  Mrs.  Clemens — her  fine- 
ness, her  delicate,  wonderful  tact."  And  again,  "She 
was  not  only  a  beautiful  soul,  but  a  woman  of  sin- 
gular intellectual  power." 

There  were  always  visitors  in  the  Clemens  home. 
Above  the  mantel  in  the  library  was  written :  ' '  The 
ornament  of  a  house  is  the  friends  that  frequent  it"  and 
the  Clemens  home  never  lacked  of  those  ornaments, 
and  they  were  of  the  world's  best.  No  distinguished 
person  came  to  America  that  did  not  pay  a  visit  to 
Hartford  and  Mark  Twain.  Generally  it  was  not 
merely  a  call,  but  a  stay  of  days.  The  welcome  was 
always  genuine,  the  entertainment  unstinted.  George 
Warner,  a  close  neighbor,  once  said: 
203 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

"The  Clemens  house  was  the  only  one  I  have 
ever  known  where  there  was  never  any  preoccupation 
in  the  evenings  and  where  visitors  were  always  wel- 
come. Clemens  was  the  best  kind  of  a  host;  his 
evenings  after  dinner  were  an  unending  flow  of 
stories." 

As  for  friends  living  near,  they  usually  came  and 
went  at  will,  often  without  the  ceremony  of  knock- 
ing or  formal  leave-taking.  The  two  Warner  fam- 
ilies were  among  these,  the  home  of  Charles  Dudley 
Warner  being  only  a  step  away.  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  were  also  close  neighbors, 
while  the  Twichell  parsonage  was  not  far.  They 
were  all  like  one  great  family,  of  which  Mark  Twain's 
home  was  the  central  gathering-place. 


XXXVII 

"OLD  TIMES,"  "SKETCHES,"  AND  "TOM  SAWYER" 

THE  Rev.  Joseph  H.  Twichell  and  Mark  Twain 
used  to  take  many  long  walks  together,  and  once 
they  decided  to  walk  from  Hartford  to  Boston — 
about  one  hundred  miles.  They  decided  to  allow 
three  days  for  the  trip,  and  really  started  one  morn- 
ing, with  some  luncheon  in  a  basket,  and  a  little 
bag  of  useful  articles.  It  was  a  bright,  brisk  No- 
vember day,  and  they  succeeded  in  getting  to  West- 
ford,  a  distance  of  twenty-eight  miles,  that  evening. 
But  they  were  lame  and  foot-sore,  and  next  morning, 
when  they  had  limped  six  miles  or  so  farther,  Clemens 
telegraphed  to  Redpath : 

We  have  made  thirty-five  miles  in  less  than  five  days. 
This  shows  the  thing  can  be  done.  Shall  finish  now  by 
rail.  Did  you  have  any  bets  on  us? 

He  also  telegraphed  Howells  that  they  were  about 
to  arrive  in  Boston,  and  they  did,  in  fact,  reach  the 
Howells  home  about  nine  o'clock,  and  found  excel- 
lent company — the  Cambridge  set — and  a  most 
welcome  supper  waiting.  Clemens  and  Twichell 
were  ravenous.  Clemens  demanded  food  immedi- 
ately. Howells  writes : 

205 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

I  can  see  him  now  as  he  stood  up  in  the  midst  of  our 
friends,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  and  in  his  hands  a 
dish  of  those  scalloped  oysters  without  which  no  party 
in  Cambridge  was  really  a  party,  exulting  in  the  tale  of 
his  adventure,  which  had  abounded  in  the  most  original 
characters  and  amusing  incidents  at  every  mile  of  their 
progress. 

The  pedestrians  returned  to  Hartford  a  day  or 
two  later — by  train.  It  was  during  another,  though 
less  extended,  tour  which  Twichell  and  Clemens  made 
that  fall,  that  the  latter  got  his  idea  for  a  Mississippi 
book.  Howells  had  been  pleading  for  something  for 
the  January  Atlantic,  of  which  he  was  now  chief 
editor,  but  thus  far  Mark  Twain's  inspiration  had 
failed.  He  wrote  at  last,  "My  head  won't  go,"  but 
later,  the  same  day,  he  sent  another  hasty  line. 

I  take  back  the  remark  that  I  can't  write  for  the  Jan- 
uary number,  for  Twichell  and  I  have  had  a  long  walk 
in  the  woods,  and  I  got  to  telling  him  about  old  Missis- 
sippi days  of  steamboating  glory  and  grandeur  as  I  saw 
them  (during  four  years)  from  the  pilot-house.  He  said, 
"What  a  virgin  subject  to  hurl  into  a  magazine!"  I 
hadn't  thought  of  that  before.  Would  you  like  a  series 
of  papers  to  run  through  three  months,  or  six,  or  nine — 
or  about  four  months,  say  ? 

Howells  wrote  at  once,  welcoming  the  idea.  Clem- 
ens forthwith  sent  the  first  instalment  of  that  mar- 
velous series  of  river  chapters  which  rank  to-day 
among  the  very  best  of  his  work.  As  pictures  of 
the  vanished  Mississippi  life  they  are  so  real,  so  con- 
vincing, so  full  of  charm  that  they  can  never  grow 
206 


"OLD   TIMES" 

old.  As  long  as  any  one  reads  of  the  Mississippi 
they  will  look  up  those  chapters  of  Mark  Twain's 
piloting  days.  When  the  first  number  appeared, 
John  Hay  wrote : 

It  is  perfect;  no  more,  no  less.  I  don't  see  how  you 
do  it." 

The  "Old  Times"  chapter  ran  through  seven 
numbers  of  the  Atlantic,  and  show  Mark  Twain  at 
his  very  best.  They  form  now  most  of  the  early 
chapters  of  Life  on  the  Mississippi.  The  remainder 
of  that  book  was  added  about  seven  years  later. 

Those  were  busy  literary  days  for  Mark  Twain. 
Writing  the  river  chapters  carried  him  back,  and 
hardly  had  he  finished  them  when  he  took  up  the 
neglected  story  of  Tom  and  Huck,  and  finished  that 
under  full  steam.  He  at  first  thought  of  publishing 
it  in  the  Atlantic,  but  decided  against  this  plan.  He 
sent  Howells  the  manuscript  to  read,  and  received 
the  fullest  praise.  Howells  wrote: 

It  is  altogether  the  best  boy's  story  I  ever  read.  It  will 
be  an  immense  success. 

Clemens,  however,  delayed  publication.  He  had 
another  volume  in  press — a  collection  of  his  sketches 
— among  them  the  "Jumping  Frog,"  and  others  of 
his  California  days.  The  "Jumping  Frog"  had  been 
translated  into  French,  and  in  this  book  Mark  Twain 
published  the  French  version  and  then  a  literal  re- 
translation  of  his  own,  which  is  one  of  the  most 
amusing  features  in  the  volume.  As  an  example, 
the  stranger's  remark,  "I  don't  see  no  p'ints  about 
207 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

that  frog  that's  any  better  than  any  other  frog,"  in 
the  literal  retranslation  becomes,  "I  no  saw  not 
that  that  frog  had  nothing  of  better  than  each  frog," 
and  Mark  Twain  parenthetically  adds,  "If  that 
isn't  grammar  gone  to  seed,  then  I  count  myself 
no  judge." 

Sketches  New  and  Old  went  very  well,  but  the  book 
had  no  such  sale  as  The  Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer, 
which  appeared  a  year  later,  December,  1876.  From 
the  date  of  its  issue  it  took  its  place  as  foremost  of 
American  stories  of  boy  life,  a  place  that  to  this  day 
it  shares  only  with  Huck  Finn.  Mark  Twain's  own 
boy  life  in  the  little  drowsy  town  of  Hannibal,  with 
John  Briggs  and  Tom  Blankenship — their  advent- 
ures in  and  about  the  cave  and  river — made  perfect 
material.  The  story  is  full  of  pure  delight.  The 
camp  on  the  island  is  a  picture  of  boy  heaven.  No 
boy  that  reads  it  but  longs  for  the  woods  and  a 
camp-fire  and  some  bacon  strips  in  the  frying-pan. 
It  is  all  so  thrillingly  told  and  so  vivid.  We  know 
certainly  that  it  must  all  have  happened.  The 
Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer  has  taken  a  place  side  by 
side  with  Treasure  Island. 


XXXVIII 

HOME    PICTURES 

MARK  TWAIN  was  now  regarded  by  many  as 
the  foremost  American  author.  Certainly  he 
was  the  most  widely  known.  As  a  national  feature 
he  rivaled  Niagara  Falls.  No  civilized  spot  on  earth 
that  his  name  had  not  reached.  Letters  merely  ad- 
dressed "Mark  Twain"  found  their  way  to  him. 
"Mark  Twain,  United  States,"  was  a  common  super- 
scription. "Mark  Twain,  The  World,"  also  reached 
him  without  delay,  while  "Mark  Twain,  Some- 
where," and  "Mark  Twain,  Anywhere,"  in  due  time 
came  to  Hartford.  "Mark  Twain,  God  Knows 
Where,"  likewise  arrived  promptly,  and  in  his  reply 
he  said,  "He  did."  Then  a  letter  addressed  "The 
Devil  Knows  Where"  also  reached  him,  and  he 
answered,  "He  did,  too."  Surely  these  were  the 
farthermost  limits  of  fame. 

Countless  anecdotes  went  the  rounds  of  the  press. 
Among  them  was  one  which  happened  to  be  true : 

Their  near  neighbor,  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe, 
was  leaving  for  Florida  one  morning,  and  Clemens 
ran  over  early  to  say  good-by.  On  his  return  Mrs. 
Clemens  looked  at  him  severely. 

"Why,  Youth,"  she  said,  "you  haven't  on  any 
collar  and  tie." 

209 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

He  said  nothing,  but  went  to  his  room,  wrapped 
up  those  items  in  a  neat  package,  which  he  sent 
over  by  a  servant  to  Mrs.  Stowe,  with  the  line: 

Herewith  receive  a  call  from  the  rest  of  me. 

Mrs.  Stowe  returned  a  witty  note,  in  which  she 
said  he  had  discovered  a  new  principle — that  of 
making  calls  by  instalments,  and  asked  whether  in 
extreme  cases  a  man  might  not  send  his  clothes  and 
be  himself  excused. 

Most  of  his  work  Mark  Twain  did  at  Quarry 
Farm.  Each  summer  the  family — there  were  two 
little  girls  now,  Susy  and  Clara — went  to  that  lovely 
place  on  the  hilltop  above  Elmira,  where  there  were 
plenty  of  green  fields  and  cows  and  horses  and 
apple-trees,  a  spot  as  wonderful  to  them  as  John 
Quarles's  farm  had  been  to  their  father,  so  long  ago. 
All  the  family  loved  Quarry  Farm,  and  Mark  Twain's 
work  went  more  easily  there.  His  winters  were  not 
suited  to  literary  creation — there  were  too  many 
social  events,  though  once — it  was  the  winter  of 
'76 — he  wrote  a  play  with  Bret  Harte,  who  came  to 
Hartford  and  stayed  at  the  Clemens  home  while  the 
work  was  in  progress.  It  was  a  Chinese  play, 
"  Ah  Sin,"  and  the  two  had  a  hilarious  time  writing 
it,  though  the  result  did  not  prove  much  of  a  suc- 
cess with  the  public.  Mark  Twain  often  tried 
plays — one  with  Howells,  among  others — but  the 
Colonel  Sellers  play  was  his  only  success. 

Grand  dinners,  trips  to  Boston  and  New  York, 
guests  in  his  own  home,  occupied  much  of  Mark 
Twain's  winter  season.  His  leisure  he  gave  to  his 


HOME   PICTURES 

children  and  to  billiards.  He  had  a  passion  for  the 
game,  and  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  was  likely 
to  be  found  in  the  room  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
knocking  the  balls  about  alone  or  with  any  visitor 
that  he  had  enticed  to  that  den.  He  mostly  received 
his  callers  there,  and  impressed  them  into  the  game. 
If  they  could  play,  well  and  good.  If  not,  so  much 
the  better;  he  could  beat  them  extravagantly,  and 
he  took  huge  delight  in  such  contests.  Every  Fri- 
day evening  a  party  of  billiard  lovers — Hartford  men 
— gathered  and  played,  and  told  stories,  and  smoked 
until  the  room  was  blue.  Clemens  never  tired  of  the 
game.  He  could  play  all  night.  He  would  stay 
until  the  last  man  dropped  from  sheer  weariness, 
and  then  go  on  knocking  the  balls  about  alone. 

But  many  evenings  at  home — early  evenings — he 
gave  to  Susy  and  Clara.  They  had  learned  his  gift 
as  a  romancer  and  demanded  the  most  startling  in- 
ventions. They  would  bring  him  a  picture  requiring 
him  to  fit  a  story  to  it  without  a  moment's  delay. 
Once  he  was  suddenly  ordered  by  Clara  to  make  a 
story  out  of  a  plumber  and  a  "bawgunstictor," 
which,  on  the  whole,  was  easier  than  some  of  their 
requirements.  Along  the  book-shelves  were  orna- 
ments and  pictures.  A  picture  of  a  girl  whom  they 
called  "Emeline"  was  at  one  end,  and  at  the  other 
a  cat.  Every  little  while  they  compelled  him  to 
make  a  story  beginning  with  the  cat  and  ending 
with  Emeline.  Always  a  new  story,  and  never  the 
other  way  about.  The  literary  path  from  the  cat 
to  Emeline  was  a  perilous  one,  but  in  time  he  could 
have  traveled  it  in  his  dreams. 


XXXIX 

TRAMPING  ABROAD 

IT  was  now  going  on  ten  years  since  the  publication 
of  The  Innocents  Abroad,  and  there  was  a  demand 
for  another  Mark  Twain  book  of  travel.  Clemens 
considered  the  matter,  and  decided  that  a  walking- 
tour  in  Europe  might  furnish  the  material  he  wanted. 
He  spoke  to  his  good  friend,  the  Rev. ' '  Joe  "  Twichell, 
and  invited  him  to  become  his  guest  on  such  an 
excursion,  because,  as  he  explained,  he  thought  he 
could  "dig  material  enough  out  of  Joe  to  make  it 
a  sound  investment."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  loved 
Twichell's  companionship,  and  was  always  inviting 
him  to  share  his  journeys — to  Boston,  to  Bermuda, 
to  Washington — wherever  interest  or  fancy  led  him. 
His  plan  now  was  to  take  the  family  to  Germany 
in  the  spring,  and  let  Twichell  join  them  later  for  a 
summer  tramp  down  through  the  Black  Forest  and 
Switzerland.  Meantime  the  Clemens  household 
took  up  the  study  of  German.  The  children  had  a 
German  nurse — others  a  German  teacher.  The 
household  atmosphere  became  Teutonic.  Of  course 
it  all  amused  Mark  Twain,  as  everything  amused 
him,  but  he  was  a  good  student.  In  a  brief  time  he 
had  a  fair  knowledge  of  every-day  German  and  a 

212 


TRAMPING   ABROAD 

really  surprising  vocabulary.  The  little  family  sailed 
in  April  (1878),  and  a  few  weeks  later  were  settled  in 
the  Schloss  Hotel,  on  a  hill  above  Heidelberg,  over- 
looking the  beautiful  old  castle,  the  ancient  town, 
with  the  Neckar  winding  down  the  hazy  valley — as 
fair  a  view  as  there  is  in  all  Germany. 

Clemens  found  a  room  for  his  work  in  a  small 
house  not  far  from  the  hotel.  On  the  day  of  his 
arrival  he  had  pointed  out  this  house  and  said  he 
had  decided  to  work  there — that  his  room  would  be 
the  middle  one  on  the  third  floor.  Mrs.  Clemens 
laughed,  and  thought  the  occupants  of  the  house 
might  be  surprised  when  he  came  over  to  take  pos- 
session. They  amused  themselves  by  watching  "his 
people"  and  trying  to  make  out  what  they  were 
like.  One  day  he  went  over  that  way,  and,  sure 
enough,  there  was  a  sign,  "Furnished  Rooms,"  and 
the  one  he  had  pointed  out  from  the  hotel  was  vacant. 
It  became  his  study  forthwith. 

The  travelers  were  delighted  with  their  location. 
To  Howells,  Clemens  wrote: 

Our  bedroom  has  two  great  glass  bird-cages  (inclosed 
balconies),  one  looking  toward  the  Rhine  Valley  and  sun- 
set, the  other  looking  up  the  Neckar  cul  de  sac,  and, 
naturally,  we  spent  nearly  all  our  time  in  these.  We 
have  tables  and  chairs  in  them.  ...  It  must  have  been 
a  noble  genius  who  devised  this  hotel.  Lord !  how  blessed 
is  the  repose,  the  tranquillity  of  this  place!  Only  two 
sounds:  the  happy  clamor  of  the  birds  in  the  groves  and 
the  muffled  music  of  the  Neckar  tumbling  over  the  op- 
posing dikes.  It  is  no  hardship  to  lie  awake  awhile 
nights,  for  this  subdued  roar  has  exactly  the  sound  of  a 
15  2I3 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

steady  rain  beating  upon  a  roof.  It  is  so  healing  to  the 
spirit ;  and  it  bears  up  the  thread  of  one's  imaginings  as  the 
accompaniment  bears  up  a  song. 

Twichell  was  summoned  for  August,  and  wrote 
back  eagerly  at  the  prospect : 

Oh,  my !  Do  you  realize,  Mark,  what  a  symposium  it  is 
to  be?  I  do.  To  begin  with,  I  am  thoroughly  tired,  and 
the  rest  will  be  worth  everything.  To  walk  with  you  and 
talk  with  you  for  weeks  together — why,  it's  my  dream 
of  luxury ! 

Meantime  the  struggle  with  the  "awful  German 
language"  went  on.  Rosa,  the  maid,  was  required 
to  speak  to  the  children  only  in  German,  though 
little  Clara  at  first  would  have  none  of  it.  Susy,  two 
years  older,  tried,  and  really  made  progress,  but  one 
day  she  said,  pathetically : 

"Mama,  I  wish  Rosa  was  made  in  English." 
But  presently  she  was  writing  to   "Aunt  Sue" 
(Mrs.  Crane)  at  Quarry  Farm : 

I  know  a  lot  of  German;  everybody  says  I  know  a  lot. 
I  give  you  a  million  dollars  to  see  you,  and  you  would  give 
two  hundred  dollars  to  see  the  lovely  woods  we  see. 

Twichell  arrived  August  ist.  Clemens  met  him 
at  Baden-Baden,  and  they  immediately  set  forth  on 
a  tramp  through  the  Black  Forest,  excursioning  as 
they  pleased  and  having  a  blissful  time.  They  did 
not  always  walk.  They  were  likely  to  take  a  carriage 
or  a  donkey-cart,  or  even  a  train,  when  one  conven- 
iently happened  along.  They  did  not  hurry,  but 
214 


TRAMPING   ABROAD 

idled  and  talked  and  gathered  flowers,  or  gossiped 
with  wayside  natives — picturesque  peasants  in  the 
Black  Forest  costume.  In  due  time  they  crossed 
into  Switzerland  and  prepared  to  conquer  the  Alps. 
The  name  Mark  Twain  had  become  about  as  well 
known  in  Europe  as  it  was  in  America.  His  face, 
however,  was  less  familiar.  He  was  not  often 
recognized  in  these  wanderings,  and  his  pen-name 
was  carefully  concealed.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  not 
to  be  an  object  of  curiosity  and  lavish  attention. 
Twichell's  conscience  now  and  then  prompted  him 
to  reveal  the  truth.  In  one  of  his  letters  home  he 
wrote  how  a  young  man  at  a  hotel  had  especially 
delighted  in  Mark's  table  conversation,  and  how  he 
(Twichell)  had  later  taken  the  young  man  aside  and 
divulged  the  speaker's  identity. 

I  could  not  forbear  telling  him  who  Mark  was,  and  the 
mingled  surprise  and  pleasure  his  face  exhibited  made  me 
glad  I  had  done  so. 

They  did  not  climb  many  of  the  Alps  on  foot. 
They  did  scale  the  Rigi,  after  which  Mark  Twain  was 
not  in  the  best  walking  trim ;  though  later  they  con- 
quered Gemini  Pass — no  small  undertaking — that 
trail  that  winds  up  and  up  until  the  traveler  has  only 
the  glaciers  and  white  peaks  and  the  little  high- 
blooming  flowers  for  company. 

All  day  long  the  friends  would  tramp  and  walk 
together,  and  when  they  did  not  walk  they  would 
hire  a  diligence  or  any  vehicle  that  came  handy,  but, 
whatever  their  means  of  travel  the  joy  of  comrade- 
ship amid  those  superb  surroundings  was  the  same. 
215 


THE    BOYS',  LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

In  TwichelTs  letters  home  we  get  pleasant  pictures 
of  the  Mark  Twain  of  that  day: 

Mark,  to-day,  was  immensely  absorbed  in  flowers.  He 
scrambled  around  and  gathered  a  great  variety,  and 
manifested  the  intensest  pleasure  in  them.  .  .  .  Mark  is 
splendid  to  walk  with  amid  such  grand  scenery,  for  he 
talks  so  well  about  it,  has  such  a  power  of  strong,  pictu- 
resque expression.  I  wish  you  might  have  heard  him  to- 
day. His  vigorous  speech  nearly  did  justice  to  the  things 
we  saw. 

And  in  another  place: 

He  can't  bear  to  see  the  whip  used,  or  to  see  a  horse 
pull  hard.  To-day  when  the  driver  clucked  up  his 
horse  and  quickened  his  pace  a  little,  Mark  said,  "The 
fellow's  got  the  notion  that  we  were  in  a  hurry." 

Another  extract  refers  to  an  incident  which  Mark 
Twain  also  mentions  in  A  Tramp  Abroad: 1 

Mark  is  a  queer  fellow.  There  is  nothing  so  delights 
him  as  a  swift,  strong  stream.  You  can  hardly  get  him 
to  leave  one  when  once  he  is  in  the  influence  of  its  fasci- 
nations. To  throw  in  stones  and  sticks  seems  to  afford 
him  rapture. 

Twichell  goes  on  to  tell  how  he  threw  some  drift- 
wood into  a  racing  torrent  and  how  Mark  went 
running  down-stream  after  it,  waving  and  shouting 
in  a  sort  of  mad  ecstasy. 

When  a  piece  went  over  a  fall  and  emerged  to  view  in 
the  foam  below,  he  would  jump  up  and  down  and  yell. 
He  acted  just  like  a  boy. 

1  Chapter  XXXIII. 
216 


TRAMPING   ABROAD 

Boy  he  was,  then  and  always.  Like  Peter  Pan, 
he  never  really  grew  up — that  is,  if  growing  up  means 
to  grow  solemn  and  uninterested  in  play. 

Climbing  the  Corner  Grat  with  Twichell,  they  sat 
down  to  rest,  and  a  lamb  from  a  near-by  flock  vent- 
ured toward  them.  Clemens  held  out  his  hand 
and  called  softly.  The  lamb  ventured  nearer, 
curious  but  timid. 

It  was  a  scene  for  a  painter:  the  great  American  hu- 
morist on  one  side  of  the  game,  and  the  silly  little  creature 
on  the  other,  with  the  Matterhorn  for  a  background. 
Mark  was  reminded  that  the  time  he  was  consuming  was 
valuable,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  Corner  Grat  could 
wait.  He  held  on  with  undiscouraged  perseverance  till 
he  carried  his  point;  the  lamb  finally  put  its  nose  in 
Mark's  hand,  and  he  was  happy  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

In  A  Tramp  Abroad  Mark  Twain  burlesques  most 
of  the  walking-tour  with  Harris  (Twichell),  feeling, 
perhaps,  that  he  must  make  humor  at  whatever 
cost.  But  to-day  the  other  side  of  the  picture  seems 
more  worth  while.  That  it  seemed  so  to  him,  also, 
even  at  the  time,  we  may  gather  from  a  letter  he 
sent  after  Twichell  when  it  was  all  over  and 
Twichell  was  on  his  way  home : 

DEAR  OLD  JOE, — It  is  actually  all  over!  I  was  so  low- 
spirited  at  the  station  yesterday,  and  this  morning,  when 
I  woke,  I  couldn't  seem  to  accept  the  dismal  truth  that 
you  were  really  gone  and  the  pleasant  tramping  and 
talking  at  an  end.  Ah,  my  boy !  It  has  been  such  a  rich 
holiday  for  me,  and  I  feel  under  such  deep  and  honest 
obligations  to  you  for  coming.  I  am  putting  out  of  my 
217 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

mind  all  memory  of  the  time  when  I  misbehaved  toward 
you  and  hurt  you;  I  am  resolved  to  consider  it  forgiven, 
and  to  store  up  and  remember  only  the  charming  hours 
of  the  journey  and  the  times  when  I  was  not  unworthy 
to  be  with  you  and  share  a  companionship  which  to  me 
stands  first  after  Livy's. 

Clemens  had  joined  his  family  at  Lausanne,  and 
presently  they  journeyed  down  into  Italy,  returning 
later  to  Germany — to  Munich,  where  they  lived 
quietly  with  Fraulein  Dahlweiner  at  No.  la  Karl- 
strasse,  while  he  worked  on  his  new  book  of  travel. 
When  spring  came  they  went  to  Paris,  and  later  to 
London,  where  the  usual  round  of  entertainment 
briefly  claimed  them.  It  was  the  3d  of  September, 
1879,  when  they  finally  reached  New  York.  The 
papers  said  that  Mark  Twain  had  changed  in  his 
year  and  a  half  of  absence.  He  had,  somehow,  taken 
on  a  traveled  look.  One  paper  remarked  that  he 
looked  older  than  when  he  went  to  Germany,  and 
that  his  hair  had  turned  quite  gray. 


XL 
"THE  PRINCE  AND  THE  PAUPER" 

T^HEY  went  directly  to  Quarry  Farm,  where 
1  Clemens  again  took  up  work  on  his  book,  which 
he  hoped  to  have  ready  for  early  publication.  But 
his  writing  did  not  go  as  well  as  he  had  hoped,  and 
it  was  long  after  they  had  returned  to  Hartford  that 
the  book  was  finally  in  the  printer's  hands. 

Meantime  he  had  renewed  work  on  a  story  begun 
two  years  before  at  Quarry  Farm.  Browsing  among 
the  books  there  one  summer  day,  he  happened  to 
pick  up  The  Prince  and  the  Page,  by  Charlotte  M. 
Yonge.  It  was  a  story  of  a  prince  disguised  as  a 
blind  beggar,  and,  as  Mark  Twain  read,  an  idea  came 
to  him  for  an  altogether  different  story,  or  play,  of 
his  own.  He  would  have  a  prince  and  a  pauper 
change  places,  and  through  a  series  of  adventures 
learn  each  the  trials  and  burdens  of  the  other  life. 
He  presently  gave  up  the  play  idea,  and  began  it  as 
a  story.  His  first  intention  had  been  to  make  the 
story  quite  modern,  using  the  late  King  Edward  VII. 
(then  Prince  of  Wales)  as  his  prince,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  would  not  do  to  lose  a  prince  among  the 
slums  of  modern  London  —  he  could  not  make  it 
seem  real;  so  he  followed  back  through  history  until 
219 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

he  came  to  the  little  son  of  Henry  VIII.,  Edward 
Tudor,  and  decided  that  he  would  do. 

It  was  the  kind  of  a  story  that  Mark  Twain 
loved  to  read  and  to  write.  By  the  end  of  that 
first  summer  he  had  finished  a  good  portion  of  the 
exciting  adventures  of  The  Prince  and  the  Pauper, 
and  then,  as  was  likely  to  happen,  the  inspiration 
waned  and  the  manuscript  was  laid  aside. 

But  with  the  completion  of  A  Tramp  Abroad — a 
task  which  had  grown  wearisome — he  turned  to  the 
luxury  of  romance  with  a  glad  heart.  To  Howells 
he  wrote  that  he  was  taking  so  much  pleasure  in 
the  writing  that  he  wanted  to  make  it  last. 

Did  I  ever  tell  you  the  plot  of  it?  It  begins  at  9  A.M., 
January  27,  1547.  .  .  .  My  idea  is  to  afford  a  realizing 
sense  of  the  exceeding  severity  of  the  laws  of  that  day  by 
inflicting  some  of  their  penalties  upon  the  king  himself, 
and  allowing  him  a  chance  to  see  the  rest  of  them  applied 
to  others. 

Susy  and  Clara  Clemens  were  old  enough  now  to 
understand  the  story,  and  as  he  finished  the  chapters 
he  read  them  aloud  to  his  small  home  audience — a 
most  valuable  audience,  indeed,  for  he  could  judge 
from  its  eager  interest,  or  lack  of  attention,  just  the 
measure  of  his  success. 

These  little  creatures  knew  all  about  the  writing 
of  books.  Susy's  earliest  recollection  was  Tom  Saw- 
yer read  aloud  from  the  manuscript.  Also  they 
knew  about  plays.  They  could  not  remember  a 
time  when  they  did  not  take  part  in  evening  cha- 
rades— a  favorite  amusement  in  the  Clemens  home. 

220 


"THE  PRINCE  ANp  THE  PAUPER" 

Mark  Twain,  who  always  loved  his  home  and  played 
with  his  children,  invented  the  charades  and  their 
parts  for  them,  at  first,  but  as  they  grew  older  they 
did  not  need  much  help.  With  the  Twichell  and 
Warner  children  they  organized  a  little  company  for 
their  productions,  and  entertained  the  assembled 
households.  They  did  not  make  any  preparation 
for  their  parts.  A  word  was  selected  and  the  sylla- 
bles of  it  whispered  to  the  little  actors.  Then  they 
withdrew  to  the  hall,  where  all  sorts  of  costumes 
had  been  laid  out  for  the  evening,  dressed  their  parts, 
and  each  group  marched  into  the  library,  performed 
its  syllable,  and  retired,  leaving  the  audience  of 
parents  to  guess  the  answer.  Now  and  then,  even 
at  this  early  day,  they  gave  little  plays,  and  of 
course  Mark  Twain  could  not  resist  joining  them. 
In  time  the  plays  took  the  place  of  the  charades  and 
became  quite  elaborate,  with  a  stage  and  scenery, 
but  we  shall  hear  of  this  later  on. 

The  Prince  and  the  Pauper  came  to  an  end  in  due 
season,  in  spite  of  the  wish  of  both  author  and  audi- 
ence for  it  to  go  on  forever.  It  was  not  published 
at  once,  for  several  reasons,  the  main  one  being  that 
A  Tramp  Abroad  had  just  been  issued  from  the  press, 
and  a  second  book  might  interfere  with  its  sale. 

As  it  was,  the  Tramp  proved  a  successful  book — 
never  as  successful  as  the  Innocents,  for  neither  its 
humor  nor  its  description  had  quite  the  fresh  quality 
of  the  earlier  work.  In  the  beginning,  however,  the 
sales  were  large,  the  advance  orders  amounting  to 
twenty-five  thousand  copies,  and  the  return  to  the 
author  forty  thousand  dollars  for  the  first  year. 


XLI 

GENERAL   GRANT   AT   HARTFORD 

A  THIRD  little  girl  came  to  the  Clemens  house- 
/i.  hold  during  the  summer  of  1880.  They  were 
then  at  Quarry  Farm,  and  Clemens  wrote  to  his 
friend  Twichell: 

DEAR  OLD  JOE, — Concerning  Jean  Clemens,  if  anybody 
said  he  "didn't  see  no  p'ints  about  that  frog  that's  any 
better  than  any  other  frog,"  I  should  think  he  was  con- 
victing himself  of  being  a  pretty  poor  sort  of  an  observer. 
...  It  is  curious  to  note  the  change  in  the  stock-quota- 
tions of  the  Affection  Board.  Four  weeks  ago  the  children 
put  Mama  at  the  head  of  the  list  right  along,  where  she 
has  always  been,  but  now: 

Jean 

Mama 

Motley    ) 

Fraulein  i  cats 

Papa 

That  is  the  way  it  stands  now.  Mama  is  become  No.  2 ; 
I  have  dropped  from  4  and  become  No.  5.  Some  time 
ago  it  used  to  be  nip  and  tuck  between  me  and  the  cats, 
but  after  the  cats  "developed"  I  didn't  stand  any  more 
show. 

Those  were  happy  days  at  Quarry  Farm.  The 
little  new  baby  thrived  on  that  summer  hilltop. 

222 


GENERAL  GRANT  AT  HARTFORD 

Also,  it  may  be  said,  the  cats.  Mark  Twain's  chil- 
dren had  inherited  his  love  for  cats,  and  at  the 
farm  were  always  cats  of  all  ages  and  varieties. 
Many  of  the  bed-time  stories  were  about  these  pets 
— stories  invented  by  Mark  Twain  as  he  went  along 
— stories  that  began  anywhere  and  ended  nowhere, 
and  continued  indefinitely  from  evening  to  evening, 
trailing  off  into  dreamland. 

The  great  humorist  cared  less  for  dogs,  though  he 
was  never  unkind  to  them,  and  once  at  the  farm  a 
gentle  hound  named  Bones  won  his  affection.  When 
the  end  of  the  summer  came  and  Clemens,  as  was 
his  habit,  started  down  the  drive  ahead  of  the  car- 
riage, Bones,  half-way  to  the  entrance,  was  waiting 
for  him.  Clemens  stooped  down,  put  his  arms  about 
him,  and  bade  him  an  affectionate  good-by. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  eighty  was  a  Presidential 
year.  Mark  Twain  was  for  General  Garfield,  and 
made  a  number  of  remarkable  speeches  in  his  favor. 
General  Grant  came  to  Hartford  during  the  cam- 
paign, and  Mark  Twain  was  chosen  to  make  the 
address  of  welcome.  Perhaps  no  such  address  of 
welcome  was  ever  made  before.  He  began : 

I  am  among  those  deputed  to  welcome  you  to  the  sin- 
cere and  cordial  hospitalities  of  Hartford,  the  city  of  the 
historic  and  revered  Charter  Oak,  of  which  most  of  the 
town  is  built. 

He  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss  what  to  say  next,  and, 

leaning  over,  pretended  to  whisper  to  Grant.    Then, 

as  if  he  had  been  prompted  by  the  great  soldier,  he 

straightened  up  and  poured  out  a  fervid  eulogy  on 

223 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Grant's  victories,  adding,  in  an  aside,  as  he  finished, 
"I  nearly  forgot  that  part  of  my  speech,"  to  the 
roaring  delight  of  his  hearers,  while  Grant  himself 
grimly  smiled. 

He  then  spoke  of  the  General  being  now  out  of 
public  employment,  and  how  grateful  his  country 
was  to  him,  and  how  it  stood  ready  to  reward  him 
in  every  conceivable — inexpensive — way. 

Grant  had  smiled  more  than  once  during  the 
speech,  and  when  this  sentence  came  out  at  the  end 
his  composure  broke  up  altogether,  while  the  throng 
shouted  approval.  Clemens  made  another  speech  that 
night  at  the  opera-house — a  speech  long  remembered 
in  Hartford  as  one  of  the  great  efforts  of  his  life. 

A  very  warm  friendship  had  grown  up  between 
Mark  Twain  and  General  Grant.  A  year  earlier, 
on  the  famous  soldier's  return  from  his  trip  around 
the  world,  a  great  birthday  banquet  had  been  given 
him  in  Chicago,  at  which  Mark  Twain's  speech  had 
been  the  event  of  the  evening.  The  colonel  who 
long  before  had  chased  the  young  pilot-soldier 
through  the  Mississippi  bottoms  had  become  his 
conquering  hero,  and  Grant's  admiration  for  Amer- 
ica's foremost  humorist  was  most  hearty.  Now  and 
again  Clemens  urged  General  Grant  to  write  his 
memoirs  for  publication,  but  the  hero  of  many 
battles  was  afraid  to  venture  into  the  field  of  letters. 
He  had  no  confidence  in  his  ability  to  write.  He  did 
not  realize  that  the  man  who  had  written  ' '  I  will  fight 
it  out  on  this  line  if  it  takes  all  summer,"  and,  later, 
"Let  us  have  peace,"  was  capable  of  English  as  terse 
and  forceful  as  the  Latin  of  Caesar's  Commentaries. 
224 


XLII 

MANY  INVESTMENTS 

'T'HE  Prince  and  the  Pauper,  delayed  for  one  reason 
•*  and  another,  did  not  make  its  public  appearance 
until  the  end  of  1881.  It  was  issued  by  Osgood,  of 
Boston,  and  was  a  different  book  in  every  way  from 
any  that  Mark  Twain  had  published  before.  Mrs. 
Clemens,  who  loved  the  story,  had  insisted  that  no 
expense  should  be  spared  in  its  making,  and  it  was, 
indeed,  a  handsome  volume.  It  was  filled  with 
beautiful  pen-and-ink  drawings,  and  the  binding  was 
rich.  The  dedication  to  its  two  earliest  critics  read : 

To  those  good-mannered  and  agreeable 
children,  Susy  and  Clara  Clemens. 

The  story  itself  was  unlike  anything  in  Mark 
Twain's  former  work.  It  was  pure  romance,  a 
beautiful,  idyllic  tale,  though  not  without  his  touch 
of  humor  and  humanity  on  every  page.  And  how 
breathlessly  interesting  it  is !  We  may  imagine  that 
first  little  audience — the  "two  good-mannered  and 
agreeable  children,"  drawing  up  in  their  little  chairs 
by  the  fireside,  hanging  on  every  paragraph  of  the 
adventures  of  the  wandering  prince  and  Tom 
Canty,  the  pauper  king,  eager  always  for  more. 
225 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

The  story,  at  first,  was  not  entirely  understood 
by  the  reviewers.  They  did  not  believe  it  could  be 
serious.  They  expected  a  joke  in  it  somewhere. 
Some  even  thought  they  had  found  it.  But  it  was 
not  a  joke,  it  was  just  a  simple  tale — a  beautiful 
picture  of  a  long-vanished  time.  One  critic,  wiser 
than  the  rest,  said: 

The  characters  of  those  two  boys,  twin  in  spirit,  will 
rank  with  the  purest  and  loveliest  creations  of  child-life 
in  the  realm  of  fiction. 

Mark  Twain  was  now  approaching  the  fullness  of 
his  fame  and  prosperity.  The  income  from  his 
writing  was  large;  Mrs.  Clemens  possessed  a  con- 
siderable fortune  of  her  own;  they  had  no  debts. 
Their  home  was  as  perfectly  appointed  as  a  home 
could  well  be,  their  family  life  was  ideal.  They 
lived  in  the  large,  hospitable  way  which  Mrs.  Clem- 
ens had  known  in  her  youth,  and  which  her  husband, 
with  his  Southern  temperament,  loved.  Their  friends 
were  of  the  world's  chosen,  and  they  were  legion  in 
number.  There  were  always  guests  in  the  Clemens 
home — so  many,  indeed,  were  constantly  coming  and 
going  that  Mark  Twain  said  he  was  going  to  set  up 
a  private  'bus  to  save  carriage  hire.  Yet  he  loved 
it  all  dearly,  and  for  the  most  part  realized  his 
happiness. 

Unfortunately,  there  were  moments  when  he  for- 
got that  his  lot  was  satisfactory,  and  tried  to  im- 
prove it.  His  Colonel  Sellers  imagination,  inherited 
from  both  sides  of  his  family,  led  him  into  financial 
adventures  which  were  generally  unprofitable.  There 
226 


MANY   INVESTMENTS 

were  no  silver-mines  in  the  East  into  which  to  empty 
money  and  effort,  as  in  the  old  Nevada  days,  but 
there  were  plenty  of  other  things — inventions,  stock 
companies,  and  the  like. 

When  a  man  came  along  with  a  patent  steam-gen- 
erator which  would  save  ninety  per  cent,  of  the  usual 
coal-supply,  Mark  Twain  invested  whatever  bank 
surplus  he  had  at  the  moment,  and  saw  that  money 
no  more  forever. 

After  the  steam-generator  came  a  steam-pulley,  a 
small  affair,  but  powerful  enough  to  relieve  him  of 
thirty-two  thousand  dollars  in  a  brief  time. 

A  new  method  of  marine  telegraphy  was  offered 
him  by  the  time  his  balance  had  grown  again,  a 
promising  contrivance,  but  it  failed  to  return  the 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  invested  in  it  by  Mark 
Twain.  The  list  of  such  adventures  is  too  long  to 
set  down  here.  They  differ  somewhat,  but  there  is 
one  feature  common  to  all— none  of  them  paid.  At 
last  came  a  chance  in  which  there  was  really  a  fort- 
une. A  certain  Alexander  Graham  Bell,  an  inven- 
tor, one  day  appeared,  offering  stock  in  an  invention 
for  carrying  the  human  voice  on  an  electric  wire. 
But  Mark  Twain  had  grown  wise,  he  thought.  Long 
after  he  wrote: 

I  declined.  I  said  I  did  not  want  any  more  to  do 
with  wildcat  speculation.  ...  I  said  I  didn't  want  it  at 
any  price.  He  (Bell)  became  eager;  and  insisted  I  take 
five  hundred  dollars'  worth.  He  said  he  would  sell  me 
as  much  as  I  wanted  for  five  hundred  dollars;  offered  to 
let  me  gather  it  up  in  my  hands  and  measure  it  in  a  plug- 
hat;  said  I  could  have  a  whole  hatful  for  five  hundred 
227 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK   TWAIN 

dollars.  But  I  was  a  burnt  child,  and  resisted  all  these 
temptations — resisted  them  easily;  went  off  with  my 
money,  and  next  day  lent  five  thousand  of  it  to  a  friend 
who  was  going  to  go  bankrupt  three  days  later. 

It  was  the  chance  of  fortune  thus  thrown  away 
which,  perhaps,  led  him  to  take  up  later  with  an  en- 
graving process — an  adventure  which  lasted  through 
several  years  and  ate  up  a  heavy  sum.  Altogether, 
these  experiences  in  finance  cost  Mark  Twain  a  fair- 
sized  fortune,  though,  after  all,  they  were  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  great  type-machine  calamity 
which  we  shall  hear  of  in  a  later  chapter. 


XLIII 

BACK  TO  THE   RIVER,   WITH   BIXBY 

CORTUNATELY,  Mark  Twain  was  not  greatly 
L  upset  by  his  losses.  They  exasperated  him  for 
the  moment,  perhaps,  but  his  violence  waned  pres- 
ently, and  the  whole  matter  was  put  aside  forever. 
His  work  went  on  with  slight  interference.  Looking 
over  his  Mississippi  chapters  one  day,  he  was  taken 
with  a  new  interest  in  the  river,  and  decided  to  make 
the  steamboat  trip  between  St.  Louis  and  New 
Orleans,  to  report  the  changes  that  had  taken  place 
in  his  twenty-one  years  of  absence.  His  Boston 
publisher,  Osgood,  agreed  to  accompany  him,  and  a 
stenographer  was  engaged  to  take  down  conversa- 
tions and  comments. 

At  St.  Louis  they  took  passage  on  the  steamer 
Gold  Dust  —  Clemens  under  an  assumed  name, 
though  he  was  promptly  identified.  In  his  book  he 
tells  how  the  pilot  recognized  him  and  how  they 
became  friends.  Once,  in  later  years,  he  said: 

"I  spent  most  of  my  time  up  there  with  him. 
When  we  got  down  below  Cairo,  where  there  was  a 
big,  full  river — for  it  was  high-water  season  and 
there  was  no  danger  of  the  boat  hitting  anything 
so  long  as  she  kept  in  the  river — I  had  her  most  of  the 

16  229 


THE    BOYS*    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

time  on  his  watch.  He  would  lie  down  and  sleep  and 
leave  me  there  to  dream  that  the  years  had  not 
slipped  away;  that  there  had  been  no  war,  no  mining 
days,  no  literary  adventures;  that  I  was  still  a  pilot, 
happy  and  care-free  as  I  had  been  twenty  years 
before." 

To  heighten  the  illusion  he  had  himself  called 
regularly  with  the  four-o'clock  watch,  in  order  not 
to  miss  the  mornings.  The  points  along  the  river 
were  nearly  all  new  to  him,  everything  had  changed, 
but  during  high-water  this  mattered  little.  He  was 
a  pilot  again — a  young  fellow  in  his  twenties,  spec- 
ulating on  the  problems  of  existence  and  reading  his 
fortunes  in  the  stars.  The  river  had  lost  none  of  its 
charm  for  him.  To  Bixby  he  wrote : 

I'd  rather  be  a  pilot  than  anything  else  I've  ever  been 
in  my  life.  How  do  you  run  Plum  Point? 

He  met  Bixby  at  New  Orleans.  Bixby  was  a 
captain  now,  on  the  splendid  new  Anchor  Line 
steamer  City  of  Baton  Rouge,  one  of  the  last  of  the 
fine  river  boats.  Clemens  made  the  return  trip  to 
St.  Louis  with  Bixby  on  the  Baton  Rouge — almost 
exactly  twenty-five  years  from  their  first  trip  to- 
gether. To  Bixby  it  seemed  wonderfully  like  those 
old  days  back  in  the  fifties. 

"Sam  was  making  notes  in  his  memorandum-book, 
just  as  he  always  did,"  said  Bixby,  long  after,  to  the 
writer  of  this  history. 

Mark  Twain  decided  to  see  the  river  above  St. 
Louis.  He  went  to  Hannibal  to  spend  a  few  days 
with  old  friends.  ' '  Delightful  days, ' '  he  wrote  home, 
230 


BACK   TO   THE    RIVER 

"loitering  around  all  day  long,  and  talking  with 
grayheads  who  were  boys  and  girls  with  me  thirty 
or  forty  years  ago."  He  took  boat  for  St.  Paul  and 
saw  the  upper  river,  which  he  had  never  seen  before. 
He  thought  the  scenery  beautiful,  but  he  found  a 
sadness  everywhere  because  of  the  decay  of  the  river 
trade.  In  a  note-book  entry  he  said :  ' '  The  romance 
of  boating  is  gone  now.  In  Hannibal  the  steamboat- 
man  is  no  longer  a  god." 

He  worked  at  the  Mississippi  book  that  summer 
at  the  farm,  but  did  not  get  on  very  well,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  following  year  (1883)  that  it  came 
from  the  press.  Osgood  published  it,  and  Charles 
L.  Webster,  who  had  married  Mark  Twain's  niece, 
Annie  (daughter  of  his  sister  Pamela),  looked  after 
the  agency  sales.  Mark  Twain,  in  fact,  was  preparing 
to  become  his  own  publisher,  and  this  was  the 
beginning.  Webster  was  a  man  of  ability,  and  the 
book  sold  well. 

Life  on  the  Mississippi  is  one  of  Mark  Twain's 
best  books — one  of  those  which  will  live  longest. 
The  first  twenty  chapters  are  not  excelled  in  quality 
anywhere  in  his  writings.  The  remainder  of  the 
book  has  an  interest  of  its  own,  but  it  lacks  the 
charm  of  those  memories  of  his  youth — the  mellow 
light  of  other  days  which  enhances  all  of  his  better 
work. 


XLIV 

A   READING-TOUR   WITH    CABLE 

little  while  Mark  Twain  had  a  fever  of 
•*— '  play-writing,  and  it  was  about  this  time  that 
he  collaborated  with  W.  D.  Howells  on  a  second 
Colonel  Sellers  play.  It  was  a  lively  combination. 

Once  to  the  writer  Howells  said:  "Clemens  took 
one  scene  and  I  another.  We  had  loads  of  fun 
about  it.  We  cracked  our  sides  laughing  over  it 
as  we  went  along.  We  thought  it  mighty  good,  and 
I  think  to  this  day  it  was  mighty  good." 

But  actors  and  managers  did  not  agree  with  them. 
Raymond,  who  had  played  the  original  Sellers,  de- 
clared that  in  this  play  the  Colonel  had  not  become 
merely  a  visionary,  but  a  lunatic.  The  play  was 
offered  elsewhere,  and  finally  Mark  Twain  produced 
it  at  his  own  expense.  But  perhaps  the  public 
agreed  with  Raymond,  for  the  venture  did  not  pay. 

It  was  about  a  year  after  this  (the  winter  of 
1884-5)  tnat  Mark  Twain  went  back  to  the  lecture 
platform — or  rather,  he  joined  with  George  W.  Cable 
in  a  reading-tour.  Cable  had  been  giving  readings  on 
his  own  account  from  his  wonderful  Creole  stories, 
and  had  visited  Mark  Twain  in  Hartford.  While 
there  he  had  been  taken  down  with  the  mumps,  and  it 
232 


A   READING-TOUR   WITH    CABLE 

was  during  his  convalescence  that  the  plan  for  a  com- 
bined reading-tour  had  been  made.  This  was  early 
in  the  year,  and  the  tour  was  to  begin  in  the  autumn. 

Cable,  meantime,  having  quite  recovered,  con- 
ceived a  plan  to  repay  Mark  Twain's  hospitality. 
It  was  to  be  an  April-fool — a  great  complimentary 
joke.  A  few  days  before  the  first  of  the  month  he 
had  a  "private  and  confidential"  circular  letter 
printed,  and  mailed  it  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  of 
Mark  Twain's  friends  and  admirers  in  Boston,  New 
York,  and  elsewhere,  asking  that  they  send  the 
humorist  a  letter  to  arrive  April  i,  requesting  his 
autograph.  It  would  seem  that  each  one  receiving 
this  letter  must  have  responded  to  it,  for  on  the 
morning  of  April  ist  an  immense  pile  of  letters  was 
unloaded  on  Mark  Twain's  table.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  make  of  it,  and  Mrs.  Clemens,  who  was 
party  to  the  joke,  slyly  watched  results.  They  were 
the  most  absurd  requests  for  autographs  ever  writ- 
ten. He  was  fooled  and  mystified  at  first,  then 
realizing  the  nature  and  magnitude  of  the  joke,  he 
entered  into  it  fully — delighted,  of  course,  for  it  was 
really  a  fine  compliment.  Some  of  the  letters  asked 
for  autographs  by  the  yard,  some  by  the  pound. 
Some  commanded  him  to  sit  down  and  copy  a  few 
chapters  from  The  Innocents  Abroad.  Others  asked 
that  his  autograph  be  attached  to  a  check.  John 
Hay  requested  that  he  copy  a  hymn,  a  few  hundred 
lines  of  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  etc.,  and  added: 

I  want  my  boy  to  form  a  taste  for  serious  and  elevated 
poetry,  and  it  will  add  considerable  commercial  value  to 
have  it  in  your  handwriting. 
233 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Altogether,  the  reading  of  the  letters  gave  Mark 
Twain  a  delightful  day. 

The  platform  tour  of  Clemens  and  Cable  that  fall 
was  a  success.  They  had  good  houses,  and  the  work 
of  these  two  favorites  read  by  the  authors  of  it  made 
a  fascinating  program. 

They  continued  their  tour  westward  as  far  as 
Chicago  and  gave  readings  in  Hannibal  and  Keokuk. 
Orion  Clemens  and  his  wife  once  more  lived  in 
Keokuk,  and  with  them  Jane  Clemens,  brisk  and 
active  for  her  eighty-one  years.  She  had  visited 
Hartford  more  than  once  and  enjoyed  "Sam's  fine 
house,"  but  she  chose  the  West  for  home.  Orion 
Clemens,  honest,  earnest,  and  industrious,  had  some- 
how missed  success  in  life.  The  more  prosperous 
brother,  however,  made  an  allowance  ample  for  all. 
Mark  Twain's  mother  attended  the  Keokuk  read- 
ing. Later,  at  home,  when  her  children  asked  her 
if  she  could  still  dance  (she  had  been  a  great  dancer 
in  her  youth),  she  rose, and  in  spite  of  her  fourscore, 
tripped  as  lightly  as  a  girl.  It  was  the  last  time  that 
Mark  Twain  would  see  her  in  full  health. 

At  Christmas-time  Cable  and  Clemens  took  a 
fortnight's  holiday,  and  Clemens  went  home  to 
Hartford.  There  a  grand  surprise  awaited  him. 
Mrs.  Clemens  had  made  an  adaptation  of  The  Prince 
and  the  Pauper  for  the  stage,  and  his  children,  with 
those  of  the  neighborhood,  had  learned  the  parts. 
A  good  stage  had  been  set  up  in  George  Warner's 
home,  with  a  pretty  drop-curtain  and  very  good 
scenery  indeed.  Clemens  arrived  in  the  late  after- 
noon, and  felt  an  air  of  mystery  in  the  house,  but 
234 


A    READING-TOUR    WITH    CABLE 

did  not  guess  what  it  meant.  By  and  by  he  was  led 
across  the  grounds  to  George  Warner's  home,  into 
a  large  room,  and  placed  in  a  seat  directly  fronting 
the  stage.  Then  presently  the  curtain  went  up,  the 
play  began,  and  he  knew.  As  he  watched  the  little 
performers  playing  so  eagerly  the  parts  of  his 
story,  he  was  deeply  moved  and  gratified. 

It  was  only  the  beginning  of  The  Prince  and  the 
Pauper  production.  The  play  was  soon  repeated, 
Clemens  himself  taking  the  part  of  Miles  Hendon. 
In  a  "biography"  of  her  father  which  Susy  began  a 
little  later,  she  wrote: 

Papa  had  only  three  days  to  learn  the  part  in,  but  still 
we  were  all  sure  he  could  do  it.  ...  I  was  the  prince,  and 
Papa  and  I  rehearsed  two  or  three  times  a  day  for  the 
three  days  before  the  appointed  evening.  Papa  acted  his 
part  beautifully,  and  he  added  to  the  scene,  making  it  a 
good  deal  longer.  He  was  inexpressibly  funny,  with  his 
great  slouch  hat  and  gait — oh,  such  a  gait ! 

Susy's  sister,  Clara,  took  the  part  of  Lady  Jane 
Gray,  while  little  Jean,  aged  four,  in  the  part  of  a 
court  official,  sat  at  a  small  table  and  constantly 
signed  state  papers  and  death-warrants. 


XLV 
'THE  ADVENTURES  OF  HUCKLEBERRY  FINN" 


MEANTIME,  Mark  Twain  had  really  become  a 
publisher.  His  nephew  by  marriage,  Charles 
L.  Webster,  who,  with  Osgood,  had  handled  the 
Mississippi  book,  was  now  established  under  the 
firm  name  of  Charles  L.  Webster  &  Co.,  Samuel  L. 
Clemens  being  the  company.  Clemens  had  another 
book  ready,  and  the  new  firm  were  to  handle  it 
throughout. 

The  new  book  was  a  story  which  Mark  Twain  had 
begun  one  day  at  Quarry  Farm,  nearly  eight  years 
before.  It  was  to  be  a  continuation  of  the  advent- 
ures of  Tom  Sawyer  and  Huck  Finn,  especially  of 
the  latter  as  told  by  himself.  But  the  author  had 
no  great  opinion  of  the  tale  and  presently  laid  it 
aside.  Then  some  seven  years  later,  after  his  trip 
down  the  river,  he  felt  again  the  inspiration  of  the 
old  days,  and  the  story  of  Huck's  adventures  had 
been  continued  and  brought  to  a  close.  The  author 
believed  in  it  by  this  time,  and  the  firm  of  Webster 
&  Co.  was  really  formed  for  the  purpose  of  publish- 
ing it. 

Mark  Twain  took  an  active  interest  in  the  process. 
From  the  pages  of  Life  he  selected  an  artist — a 
236 


"HUCKLEBERRY    FINN" 

young  man  named  E.  W.  Kemble,  who  would  later 
become  one  of  our  foremost  illustrators  of  Southern 
character.  He  also  gave  attention  to  the  selection 
of  the  paper  and  the  binding — even  to  the  method 
of  canvassing  for  the  sales.  In  a  note  to  Webster, 
he  wrote: 

Get  at  your  canvassing  early  and  drive  it  with  all  your 
might.  ...  If  we  haven't  40,000  subscriptions  we  simply 
postpone  publication  till  we've  got  them. 

Mark  Twain  was  making  himself  believe  that  he 
was  a  business  man,  and  in  this  instance,  at  least, 
he  seems  to  have  made  no  mistake.  Some  advanced 
chapters  of  Huck  appeared  serially  in  the  Century 
Magazine,  and  the  public  was  eager  for  more.  By 
the  time  the  Century  chapters  were  finished  the 
forty  thousand  advance  subscriptions  for  the  book 
had  been  taken,  and  Huck  Finn's  own  story,  so  long 
pushed  aside  and  delayed,  came  grandly  into  its 
own.  Many  grown-up  readers  and  most  critics  de- 
clared that  it  was  greater  than  the  Tom  Sawyer 
book,  though  the  younger  readers  generally  like  the 
first  book  the  best,  it  being  rather  more  in  the  ju- 
venile vein.  Huck's  story,  in  fact,  was  soon  causing 
quite  grown-up  discussions — discussions  as  to  its 
psychology  and  moral  phases,  matters  which  do  not 
interest  small  people,  who  are  always  on  Huck's  side 
in  everything,  and  quite  willing  that  he  should  take 
any  risk  of  body  or  soul  for  the  sake  of  Nigger  Jim. 
Poor,  vagrant  Ben  Blankenship,  hiding  his  runaway 
negro  in  an  Illinois  swamp,  could  not  dream  that  his 
237 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE   OF    MARK   TWAIN 

humanity  would  one  day  supply  the  moral  episode 
for  an  immortal  book! 

As  literature,  the  story  of  Huck  Finn  holds  a 
higher  place  than  that  of  Tom  Sawyer.  As  stories, 
they  stand  side  by  side,  neither  complete  without 
the  other,  and  both  certain  to  live  as  long  as  there 
are  real  boys  and  girls  to  read  them. 


XLVI 

PUBLISHER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT 

MARK  TWAIN  was  now  a  successful  publisher, 
but  his  success  thus  far  was  nothing  to  what 
lay  just  ahead.  One  evening  he  learned  that  Gen- 
eral Grant,  after  heavy  financial  disaster,  had  be- 
gun writing  the  memoirs  which  he  (Clemens)  had 
urged  him  to  undertake  some  years  before.  Next 
morning  he  called  on  the  General  to  learn  the  par- 
ticulars. Grant  had  contributed  some  articles  to 
the  Century  war  series,  and  felt  in  a  mood  to  continue 
the  work.  He  had  discussed  with  the  Century  pub- 
lishers the  matter  of  a  book.  Clemens  suggested 
that  such  a  book  should  be  sold  only  by  subscription 
and  prophesied  its  enormous  success.  General  Grant 
was  less  sure.  His  need  of  money  was  very  great 
and  he  was  anxious  to  get  as  much  return  as  possible, 
but  his  faith  was  not  large.  He  was  inclined  to  make 
no  special  efforts  in  the  matter  of  publication.  But 
Mark  Twain  prevailed.  Like  his  own  Colonel  Sellers, 
he  talked  glowingly  and  eloquently  of  millions.  He 
first  offered  to  direct  the  general  to  his  own  former 
subscription  publisher,  at  Hartford,  then  finally  pro- 
posed to  publish  it  himself,  offering  Grant  seventy 
239 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

per  cent,  of  the  net  returns,  and  to  pay  all  office  ex- 
penses out  of  his  own  share. 

Of  course  there  could  be  nothing  for  any  publisher 
in  such  an  arrangement  unless  the  sales  were  enor- 
mous. General  Grant  realized  this,  and  at  first 
refused  to  consent.  Here  was  a  friend  offering  to 
bankrupt  himself  out  of  pure  philanthropy,  a  thing 
he  could  not  permit.  But  Mark  Twain  came  again 
and  again,  and  finally  persuaded  him  that  purely  as 
a  business  proposition  the  offer  was  warranted  by 
the  certainty  of  great  sales. 

So  the  firm  of  Charles  L.  Webster  &  Co.  under- 
took the  Grant  book,  and  the  old  soldier,  broken  in 
health  and  fortune,  was  liberally  provided  with 


FACSIMILE  OF  GENERAL  GRANT'S  LAST   WRITING 

means  that  would  enable  him  to  finish  his  task  with 
his  mind  at  peace.  He  devoted  himself  steadily  to 
the  work  —  at  first  writing  by  hand,  then  dictating 
to  a  stenographer  that  Webster  &  Co.  provided. 
His  disease,  cancer,  made  fierce  ravages,  but  he 
240 


PUBLISHER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT 

"fought  it  out  on  that  line,"  and  wrote  the  last 
pages  of  his  memoirs  by  hand  when  he  could  no 
longer  speak  aloud.  Mark  Twain  was  much  with 
him,  and  cheered  him  with  anecdotes  and  news  of 
the  advance  sale  of  his  book.  In  one  of  his  memo- 
randa of  that  time  Clemens  wrote : 

To-day  (May  26)  talked  with  General  Grant  about  his 
and  my  first  great  Missouri  campaign,  in  1861.  He  sur- 
prised an  empty  camp  near  Florida,  Missouri,  on  Salt 
River,  which  I  had  been  occupying  a  day  or  two  before. 

How  near  he  came  to  playing  the  d with  his  future 

publisher.  . 

At  Mount  McGregor,  a  few  weeks  before  the  end, 
General  Grant  asked  if  any  estimate  could  now  be 
made  of  the  sum  which  his  family  would  obtain 
from  his  work,  and  was  deeply  comforted  by  Clem- 
ens's  prompt  reply  that  more  than  one  hundred 
thousand  sets  had  already  been  sold,  the  author's 
share  of  which  would  exceed  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars.  Clemens  added  that  the  gross 
return  would  probably  be  twice  as  much  more. 

The  last  notes  came  from  Grant's  hands  soon  after 
that,  and  a  few  days  later,  July  23,  1885,  his  task 
completed,  he  died.  To  Henry  Ward  Beecher 
Clemens  wrote: 

One  day  he  put  his  pencil  "aside  and  said  there  was 
nothing  more  to  do.  If  I  had  been  there  I  could  have 
foretold  the  shock  that  struck  the  world  three  days  later. 

In  a  memorandum  estimate  made  by  Mark  Twain 
soon  after  the  canvass  for  the  Grant  memoirs  had 
241 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

begun,  he  had  prophesied  that  three  hundred  thou- 
sand sets  of  the  book  would  be  sold,  and  that  he 
would  pay  General  Grant  in  royalties  $420,000. 
This  prophecy  was  more  than  fulfilled.  The  first 
check  paid  to  Mrs.  Grant — the  largest  single  roy- 
alty check  in  history  —  was  for  $200,000.  Later 
payments  brought  her  royalty  return  up  to  nearly 
$450,000.  For  once,  at  least,  Mark  Twain's  business 
vision  had  been  clear.  A  fortune  had  been  realized 
for  the  Grant  family.  Even  his  own  share  was 
considerable,  for  out  of  that  great  sale  more  than  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars'  profit  was  realized  by 
Webster  &  Co. 


XLVII 

THE   HIGH-TIDE    OF   FORTUNE 

THAT  summer  at  Quarry  Farm  was  one  of  the 
happiest  they  had  ever  known.  Mark  Twain, 
nearing  fifty,  was  in  the  fullness  of  his  manhood  and 
in  the  brightest  hour  of  his  fortune.  Susy,  in  her 
childish  "biography,"  begun  at  this  time,  gives  us  a 
picture  of  him.  She  begins: 

We  are  a  happy  family!  We  consist  of  Papa,  Mama, 
Jean,  Clara,  and  me.  It  is  Papa  I  am  writing  about,  and 
I  shall  have  no  trouble  in  not  knowing  what  to  say  about 
him,  as  he  is  a  very  striking  character.  Papa's  appear- 
ance has  been  described  many  times,  but  very  incorrectly; 
he  has  beautiful,  curly,  gray  hair,  not  any  too  thick  or 
any  too  long,  just  right;  a  Roman  nose,  which  greatly 
improves  the  beauty  of  his  features,  kind  blue  eyes,  and 
a  small  mustache;  he  has  a  wonderfully  shaped  head  and 
profile;  he  has  a  very  good  figure — in  short,  is  an  extraor- 
dinarily fine-looking  man.  .  .  . 

He  is  a  very  good  man,  and  a  very  funny  one;  he  has 
got  a  temper,  but  we  all  have  in  this  family.  He  is  the 
loveliest  man  I  ever  saw,  or  ever  hope  to  see,  and  oh,  so 
absent-minded! 

We  may  believe  this  is  a  true  picture  of  Mark 
Twain  at  fifty.    He  did  not  look  young  for  his  years, 
243 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

but  he  was  still  young  in  spirit  and  body.  Susy  tells 
how  he  blew  bubbles  for  the  children,  filling  them 
with  tobacco  smoke.  Also,  how  he  would  play  with 
the  cats  and  come  clear  down  from  his  study  to  see 
how  a  certain  kitten  was  getting  along. 

Susy  adds  that  "there  are  eleven  cats  at  the 
farm  now,"  and  tells  of  the  day's  occupations,  but 
the  description  is  too  long  to  quote.  It  reveals  a 
beautiful,  busy  life. 

Susy  herself  was  a  gentle,  thoughtful,  romantic 
child.  One  afternoon  she  discovered  a  wonderful 
tangle  of  vines  and  bushes,  a  still,  shut-in  corner  not 
far  from  the  study.  She  ran  breathlessly  to  her 
aunt. 

"Can  I  have  it — can  Clara  and  I  have  it  all  for 
our  own?" 

The  petition  was  granted  and  the  place  was  called 
Helen's  Bower,  for  they  were  reading  Thaddeus  oj 
Warsaw,  and  the  name  appealed  to  Susy's  poetic 
fancy.  Something  happened  to  the  "bower" — an 
unromantic  workman  mowed  it  down — but  by  this 
time  there  was  a  little  house  there  which  Mrs. 
Clemens  had  built,  just  for  the  children.  It  was  a 
complete  little  cottage,  when  furnished.  There  was 
a  porch  in  front,  with  comfortable  chairs.  Inside 
were  also  chairs,  a  table,  dishes,  shelves,  a  broom, 
even  a  stove — small,  but  practical.  They  called  the 
little  house  "Ellerslie,"  out  of  Grace  Aguilar's  Days 
of  Robert  Bruce.  There  alone,  or  with  their  Langdon 
cousins,  how  many  happy  summers  they  played  and 
dreamed  away.  Secluded  by  a  hillside  and  happy 
trees,  overlooking  the  hazy,  distant  town,  it  was  a 
244 


QUARRY   FARM,   ELMIRA,    N.    Y. 


THE   HIGH   TIDE   OF    FORTUNE 

world  apart — a  corner  of  story-book  land.  When  the 
end  of  the  summer  came  its  little  owners  went  about 
bidding  their  treasures  good-by,  closing  and  kissing 
the  gates  of  Ellerslie. 

Looking  back  now,  Mark  Twain  at  fifty  would 
seem  to  have  been  in  his  golden  prime.  His  family 
was  ideal — his  surroundings  idyllic.  Favored  by 
fortune,  beloved  by  millions,  honored  now  even  in 
the  highest  places,  what  more  had  life  to  give  ?  When 
November  3oth  brought  his  birthday,  one  of  the  great 
Brahmins,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  wrote  him 
a  beautiful  poem.  Andrew  Lang,  England's  fore- 
most critic,  also  sent  verses,  while  letters  poured  in 
from  all  sides. 

And  Mark  Twain  realized  his  fortune  and  was 
disturbed  by  it.    To  a  friend  he  said :  "I  am  fright- 
ened at  the  proportions  of  my  prosperity.    It  seems 
to  me  that  whatever  I  touch  turns  to  gold." 
17 


XLVIII 

BUSINESS   DIFFICULTIES.      PLEASANTER  THINGS 

FOR  the  time  it  would  seem  that  Mark  Twain 
had  given  up  authorship  for  business.  The  suc- 
cess of  the  Grant  book  had  filled  his  head  with  plans 
for  others  of  a  like  nature.  The  memoirs  of  General 
McClellan  and  General  Sheridan  were  arranged  for. 
Almost  any  war-book  was  considered  a  good  vent- 
ure. And  there  was  another  plan  afoot.  Pope  Leo 
XIII.,  in  his  old  age,  had  given  sanction  to  the  prep- 
aration of  his  memoirs,  and  it  was  to  be  published, 
with  his  blessing,  by  Webster  &  Co.,  of  Hartford. 
It  was  generally  believed  that  such  a  book  would 
have  a  tremendous  sale,  and  Colonel  Sellers  himself 
could  not  have  piled  the  figures  higher  than  did  his 
creator  in  counting  his  prospective  returns.  Every 
Catholic  in  the  world  must  have  a  copy  of  the  Pope's 
book,  and  in  America  alone  there  were  millions. 
Webster  went  to  Rome  to  consult  with  the  Pope  in 
person,  and  was  received  in  private  audience.  Mark 
Twain's  publishing  firm  seemed  on  the  top  wave  of 
success. 

The  McClellan  and  Sheridan  books  were  issued, 
and,  in  due  time,  the  Life  of  Pope  Leo  XIII. — pub- 
lished simultaneously  in  six  languages — issued  from 
246 


BUSINESS    DIFFICULTIES 

the  press.  A  large  advance  sale  had  been  guaranteed 
by  the  general  canvassing  agents — a  fortunate  thing, 
as  it  proved.  For,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  book 
did  not  prove  a  great  success.  It  is  hard  to  explain 
just  why.  Perhaps  Catholics  felt  that  there  had 
been  so  many  popes  that  the  life  of  any  particular 
one  was  no  great  matter.  The  book  paid,  but  not 
largely.  The  McClellan  and  Sheridan  books,  like- 
wise, were  only  partially  successful.  Perhaps  the 
public  was  getting  tired  of  war  memoirs.  Webster 
&  Co.  undertook  books  of  a  general  sort — travel, 
fiction,  poetry.  Many  of  them  did  not  pay.  Their 
business  from  a  march  of  triumph  had  become  a 
battle.  They  undertook  a  Library  of  American  Lit- 
erature, a  work  of  many  volumes,  costly  to  make 
and  even  more  so  to  sell.  To  float  this  venture  they 
were  obliged  to  borrow  large  sums. 

It  seems  unfortunate  that  Mark  Twain  should 
have  been  disturbed  by  these  distracting  things  dur- 
ing what  should  have  been  his  literary  high-tide.  As 
it  was,  his  business  interests  and  cares  absorbed  the 
energy  that  might  otherwise  have  gone  into  books. 
He  was  not  entirely  idle.  He  did  an  occasional 
magazine  article  or  story,  and  he  began  a  book 
which  he  worked  at  from  time  to  time — the  story 
of  a  Connecticut  Yankee  who  suddenly  finds  him- 
self back  in  the  days  of  King  Arthur's  reign.  Web- 
ster was  eager  to  publish  another  book  by  his  great 
literary  partner,  but  the  work  on  it  went  slowly. 
Then  Webster  broke  down  from  two  years  of  over- 
work, and  the  business  management  fell  into  other 
hands.  Though  still  recognized  as  a  great  publish- 
247 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

ing-house,  those  within  the  firm  of  Charles  L.  Web- 
ster &  Co.  knew  that  its  prospects  were  not  bright. 

Furthermore,  Mark  Twain  had  finally  invested  in 
another  patent,  the  type-setting  machine  mentioned 
in  a  former  chapter,  and  the  demands  for  cash  to 
promote  this  venture  were  heavy.  To  his  sister 
Pamela,  about  the  end  of  1887,  he  wrote:  "The 
type-setter  goes  on  forever  at  $3,000  a  month.  .  .  . 
We'll  be  through  with  it  in  three  or  four  months,  I 
reckon" — a  false  hope,  for  the  three  or  four  months 
would  lengthen  into  as  many  years. 

But  if  there  were  clouds  gathering  in  the  business 
sky,  they  were  not  often  allowed  to  cast  a  shadow 
in  Mark  Twain's  home.  The  beautiful  house  in 
Hartford  was  a  place  of  welcome  and  merriment,  of 
many  guests  and  of  happy  children.  Especially  of 
happy  children:  during  these  years — the  latter  half 
of  the  'eighties — when  Mark  Twain's  fortunes  were 
on  the  decline,  his  children  were  at  the  age  to  have  a 
good  time,  and  certainly  they  had  it.  The  dramatic 
stage  which  had  been  first  set  up  at  George  Warner's 
for  the  Christmas  Prince  and  Pauper  performance 
was  brought  over  and  set  up  in  the  Clemens  school- 
room, and  every  Saturday  there  were  plays  or  re- 
hearsals, and  every  little  while  there  would  be  a 
grand  general  performance  in  the  great  library  down- 
stairs, which  would  accommodate  just  eighty-four 
chairs,  filled  by  parents  of  the  performers  and  in- 
vited guests.  In  notes  dictated  many  years  later, 
Mark  Twain  said : 

We  dined  as  we  could,  probably  with  a  neighbor,  and 
by  quarter  to  eight  in  the  evening  the  hickory  fire  in 
248 


BUSINESS    DIFFICULTIES 

the  hall  was  pouring  a  sheet  of  flame  up  the  chimney,  the 
house  was  in  a  drench  of  gas-light  from  the  ground  floor 
up,  the  guests  were  arriving,  and  there  was  a  babble  of 
hearty  greetings,  with  not  a  voice  in  it  that  was  not  old 
and  familiar  and  affectionate;  and  when  the  curtain 
went  up,  we  looked  out  from  the  stage  upon  none  but 
faces  dear  to  us,  none  but  faces  that  were  lit  up  with 
welcome  for  us. 

He  was  one  of  the  children  himself,  you  see,  and 
therefore  on  the  stage  with  the  others.  Katy  Leary, 
for  thirty  years  in  the  family  service,  once  said  to 
the  author:  "The  children  were  crazy  about  acting, 
and  we  all  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  they  did,  especially 
Mr.  Clemens,  who  was  the  best  actor  of  all.  I  have 
never  known  a  happier  household  than  theirs  was 
during  those  years." 

The  plays  were  not  all  given  by  the  children. 
Mark  Twain  had  kept  up  his  German  study,  and  a 
class  met  regularly  in  his  home  to  struggle  with  the 
problems  of  der,  die,  and  das.  By  and  by  he  wrote  a 
play  for  the  class,  "Meisterschaft,"  a  picturesque 
mixture  of  German  and  English,  which  they  gave 
twice,  with  great  success.  It  was  unlike  anything 
attempted  before  or  since.  No  one  but  Mark  Twain 
could  have  written  it.  Later  (January,  1888),  in 
modified  form,  it  was  published  in  the  Century  Mag- 
azine. It  is  his  best  work  of  this  period. 

Many  pleasant  and  amusing  things  could  be  re- 
called from  these  days  if  one  only  had  room.  A 
visit  with  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  one  of  them. 
Stevenson  was  stopping  at  a  small  hotel  near  Wash- 
ington Square,  and  he  and  Clemens  sat  on  a  bench 
249 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

in  the  sunshine  and  talked  through  at  least  one 
golden  afternoon.  What  marvelous  talk  that  must 
have  been!  Huck  Finn  was  one  of  Stevenson's  fa- 
vorites, and  once  he  told  how  he  had  insisted  on 
reading  the  book  aloud  to  an  artist  who  was  painting 
his  portrait.  The  painter  had  protested  at  first,  but 
presently  had  fallen  a  complete  victim  to  Huck's 
story.  Once,  in  a  letter,  Stevenson  wrote: 

My  father,  an  old  man,  has  been  prevailed  upon  to 
read  Roughing  It  (his  usual  amusement  being  found  in 
theology),  and  after  one  evening  spent  with  the  book  he 
declared:  "  I  am  frightened.  It  cannot  be  safe  for  a  man 
at  my  time  of  life  to  laugh  so  much." 

Mark  Twain  had  been  a  ''mugwump"  during  the 
Blaine-Cleveland  campaign  in  1880,  which  means 
that  he  had  supported  the  independent  Democratic 
candidate,  Grover  Cleveland.  He  was,  therefore,  in 
high  favor  at  the  White  House  during  both  Cleve- 
land administrations,  and  called  there  informally 
whenever  business  took  him  to  Washington.  But 
on  one  occasion  (it  was  his  first  visit  after  the  Presi- 
dent's marriage)  there  was  to  be  a  party,  and  Mrs. 
Clemens,  who  could  not  attend,  slipped  a  little  note 
into  the  pocket  of  his  evening  waistcoat,  where  he 
would  be  sure  to  find  it  when  dressing,  warning  him 
as  to  his  deportment.  Being  presented  to  young 
Mrs.  Cleveland,  he  handed  her  a  card  on  which  he 
had  written,  "He  didn't,"  and  asked  her  to  sign 
her  name  below  those  words.  Mrs.  Cleveland  pro- 
tested that  she  must  know  first  what  it  was  that  he 
hadn't  done,  finally  agreeing  to  sign  if  he  would  tell 
250 


BUSINESS    DIFFICULTIES 

her  immediately  all  about  it,  which  he  promised  to 
do.  She  signed,  and  he  handed  her  Mrs.  Clemens's 
note.  It  was  very  brief.  It  said,  "Don't  wear  your 
arctics  in  the  White  House." 

Mrs.  Cleveland  summoned  a  messenger  and  had 
the  card  mailed  immediately  to  Mrs.  Clemens. 

Absent-mindedness  was  characteristic  of  Mark 
Twain.  He  lived  so  much  in  the  world  within  that 
to  him  the  material  outer  world  was  often  vague 
and  shadowy.  Once  when  he  was  knocking  the  balls 
about  in  the  billiard-room,  George,  the  colored  butler, 
a  favorite  and  privileged  household  character,  brought 
up  a  card.  So  many  canvassers  came  to  sell  him  one 
thing  and  another  that  Clemens  promptly  assumed 
this  to  be  one  of  them.  George  insisted  mildly,  but 
firmly,  that,  though  a  stranger,  the  caller  was  cer- 
tainly a  gentleman,  and  Clemens  grumblingly  de- 
scended the  stairs.  As  he  entered  the  parlor  the 
caller  arose  and  extended  his  hand.  Clemens  took 
it  rather  limply,  for  he  had  noticed  some  water-colors 
and  engravings  leaning  against  the  furniture  as  if 
for  exhibition,  and  he  was  instantly  convinced  that 
the  caller  was  a  picture-canvasser.  Inquiries  by  the 
stranger  as  to  Mrs.  Clemens  and  the  children  did  not 
change  Mark  Twain's  conclusion.  He  was  polite, 
but  unresponsive,  and  gradually  worked  the  visitor 
toward  the  front  door.  His  inquiry  as  to  the  home 
of  Charles  Dudley  Warner  caused  him  to  be  shown 
eagerly  in  that  direction. 

Clemens,  on  his  way  back  to  the  billiard-room, 
heard  Mrs.  Clemens  call  him — she  was  ill  that  day: 
"Youth!" 

251 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

"Yes,  Livy."     He  went  in  for  a  word. 

"George  brought  me  Mr.  B/s  card.  I  hope  you 
were  nice  to  him;  the  B.s  were  so  nice  to  us,  once, 
in  Europe,  while  you  were  gone." 

"The  B.s!     Why,  Livy!" 

"Yes,  of  course;  and  I  asked  him  to  be  sure  to 
call  when  he  came  to  Hartford." 

"Well,  he's  been  here." 

"Oh  Youth,  have  you  done  anything?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  have.  He  seemed  to  have  some 
pictures  to  sell,  so  I  sent  him  over  to  Warner's.  I 
noticed  he  didn't  take  them  with  him.  Land  sakes! 
Livy,  what  can  I  do?" 

"Go  right  after  him — go  quick!  Tell  him  what 
you  have  done." 

He  went  without  further  delay,  bareheaded  and  in 
his  slippers,  as  usual.  Warner  and  B.  were  in 
cheerful  conversation.  They  had  met  before.  Clem- 
ens entered  gaily. 

1 '  Oh,  yes,  I  see !  You  found  him  all  right.  Charlie, 
we  met  Mr.  B.  and  his  wife  in  Europe,  and  they 
made  things  pleasant  for  us.  I  wanted  to  come  over 
here  with  him,  but  I  was  a  good  deal  occupied  just 
then.  Livy  isn't  very  well,  but  she  seems  now  a 
good  deal  better;  so  I  just  followed  along  to  have 
a  good  talk,  all  together." 

He  stayed  an  hour,  and  whatever  bad  impression 
had  formed  in  B.'s  mind  faded  long  before  the 
hour  ended.  Returning  home,  Clemens  noticed  the 
pictures  still  on  the  parlor  floor. 

"George,"  he  said,  "what  pictures  are  these  that 
gentleman  left?" 

252 


BUSINESS    DIFFICULTIES 

"Why,  Mr.  Clemens,  those  are  our  own  pictures! 
Mrs.  Clemens  had  me  set  them  around  to  see  how 
they  would  look  in  new  places.  The  gentleman  was 
only  looking  at  them  while  he  waited  for  you  to 
come  down." 

It  was  in  June,  1888,  that  Yale  College  conferred 
upon  Mark  Twain  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts. 
He  was  proud  of  the  honor,  for  it  was  recognition 
of  a  kind  that  had  not  come  to  him  before — remark- 
able recognition,  when  we  remember  how  as  a  child 
he  had  hated  all  schools  and  study,  having  ended  his 
class-room  days  before  he  was  twelve  years  old.  He 
could  not  go  to  New  Haven  at  the  time,  but  later  in 
the  year  made  the  students  a  delightful  address.  In 
his  capacity  of  Master  of  Arts,  he  said,  he  had  come 
down  to  New  Haven  to  institute  certain  college 
reforms. 

By  advice,  I  turned  my  earliest  attention  to  the  Greek 
department.  I  told  the  Greek  professor  I  had  concluded 
to  drop  the  use  of  the  Greek-written  character,  because 
it  is  so  hard  to  spell  with  and  so  impossible  to  read  after 
you  get  it  spelt.  Let  us  draw  the  curtain  there.  I  saw 
by  what  followed  that  nothing  but  early  neglect  saved 
him  from  being  a  very  profane  man. 

He  said  he  had  given  advice  to  the  mathematical 
department  with  about  the  same  result.  The  as- 
tronomy department  he  had  found  in  a  bad  way.  He 
had  decided  to  transfer  the  professor  to  the  law 
department  and  to  put  a  law-student  in  his  place. 

A  boy  will  be  more  biddable,  more   tractable — also 
cheaper.    It  is  true  he  cannot  be  intrusted  with  important 
253 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

work  at  first,  but  he  can  comb  the  skies  for  nebulae  till  he 
gets  his  hand  in. 

It  was  hardly  the  sort  of  an  address  that  the 
holder  of  a  college  degree  is  expected  to  make,  but 
doctors  and  students  alike  welcomed  it  hilariously 
from  Mark  Twain. 

Not  many  great  things  happened  to  Mark  Twain 
during  this  long  period  of  semi-literary  inaction,  but 
many  interesting  ones.  When  Bill  Nye,  the  humor- 
ist, and  James  Whitcomb  Riley  joined  themselves 
in  an  entertainment  combination,  Mark  Twain  in- 
troduced them  to  their  first  Boston  audience — a  great 
event  to  them,  and  to  Boston.  Clemens  himself  gave 
a  reading  now  and  then,  but  not  for  money.  Once, 
when  Col.  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston  and  Thomas 
Nelson  Page  were  to  give  a  reading  in  Baltimore, 
Page's  wife  fell  ill,  and  Colonel  Johnston  wired  to 
Charles  Dudley  Warner,  asking  him  to  come  in 
Page's  stead.  Warner,  unable  to  go,  handed  the 
telegram  to  Clemens,  who  promptly  answered  that 
he  would  come.  They  read  to  a  packed  house,  and 
when  the  audience  had  gone  and  the  returns  were 
counted,  an  equal  amount  was  handed  to  each  of  the 
authors.  Clemens  pushed  his  share  over  to  Johnston, 
saying: 

"That's  yours,  Colonel.  I'm  not  reading  for 
money  these  days." 

Colonel  Johnston,  to  whom  the  sum  was  impor- 
tant, tried  to  thank  him,  but  Clemens  only  said: 

"Never  mind,  Colonel;  it  only  gives  me  pleasure 
to  do  you  that  little  favor.  You  can  pass  it  along 
some  day." 

254 


BUSINESS    DIFFICULTIES 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mark  Twain  himself  was  be- 
ginning to  be  hard  pressed  for  funds  at  this  time,  but 
was  strong  in  the  faith  that  he  would  presently  be 
a  multi-millionaire.  The  type-setting  machine  was 
still  costing  a  vast  sum,  but  each  week  its  inventor 
promised  that  a  few  more  weeks  or  months  would  see 
it  finished,  and  then  a  tide  of  wealth  would  come 
rolling  in.  Mark  Twain  felt  that  a  man  with  ship- 
loads of  money  almost  in  port  could  not  properly 
entertain  the  public  for  pay.  He  read  for  institu- 
tions, schools,  benefits,  and  the  like,  without  charge. 


XLIX 

KIPLING  AT  ELMIRA.     ELSIE  LESLIE.     THE  "YANKEE" 

ONE  day  during  the  summer  of  1889  a  notable 
meeting  took  place  in  Elmira.  On  a  blazing 
forenoon  a  rather  small  and  very  hot  young  man,  in 
a  slow,  sizzling  hack  made  his  way  up  East  Hill  to 
Quarry  Farm.  He  inquired  for  Mark  Twain,  only 
to  be  told  that  he  was  at  the  Langdon  home,  down 
in  the  town  which  the  young  man  had  just  left.  So  he 
sat  for  a  little  time  on  the  pleasant  veranda,  and  Mrs. 
Crane  and  Susy  Clemens,  who  were  there,  brought 
him  some  cool  milk  and  listened  to  him  talk  in  a 
way  which  seemed  to  them  very  entertaining  and 
wonderful.  When  he  went  away  he  left  his  card 
with  a  name  on  it  strange  to  them — strange  to  the 
world  at  that  time.  The  name  was  Rudyard  Kipling. 
Also  on  the  card  was  the  address  Allahabad,  and 
Susy  kept  it,  because,  to  her,  India  was  fairyland. 
Kipling  went  down  into  Elmira  and  found  Mark 
Twain.  In  his  book  American  Notes  he  has  left  an 
account  of  that  visit.  He  claimed  that  he  had 
traveled  around  the  world  to  see  Mark  Twain,  and 
his  article  begins: 

You  are  a  contemptible  lot  over  yonder.    Seme  of  you 
are  commissioners,  and  some  are  lieutenant-governors,  and 
256 


KIPLING   AT   ELMIRA 

some  have  the  V.  C.,  and  a  few  are  privileged  to  walk 
about  the  Mall  arm  in  arm  with  the  viceroy;  but  I  have 
seen  Mark  Twain  this  golden  morning,  have  shaken  his 
hand,  and  smoked  a  cigar — no,  two  cigars — with  him, 
and  talked  with  him  for  more  than  two  hours! 

But  one  should  read  the  article  entire — it  is  so 
worth  while.  Clemens  also,  long  after,  dictated  an 
account  of  the  meeting. 

Kipling  came  down  and  spent  a  couple  of  hours  with 
me,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  had  surprised  him  as 
much  as  he  had  surprised  me — and  the  honors  were  easy. 
I  believed  that  he  knew  more  than  any  person  I  had  met 
before,  and  I  knew  that  he  knew  that  I  knew  less  than 
any  person  he  had  met  before.  .  .  .  When  he  had  gone, 
Mrs.  Langdon  wanted  to  know  about  my  visitor.  I  said: 

"He  is  a  stranger  to  me,  but  he  is  a  most  remarkable 
man — and  I  am  the  other  one.  Between  us  we  cover  all 
knowledge.  He  knows  all  that  can  be  known,  and  I  know 
the  rest." 

He  was  a  stranger  to  me  and  all  the  world,  and  remained 
so  for  twelve  months,  but  then  he  became  suddenly  known 
and  universally  known.  .  .  .  George  Warner  came  into 
our  library  one  morning,  in  Hartford,  with  a  small  book 
in  his  hand,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  heard  of  Rudyard 
Kipling.  I  said  "No." 

He  said  I  would  hear  of  him  very  soon,  and  that  the  noise 
he  made  would  be  loud  and  continuous.  ...  A  day  or 
two  later  he  brought  a  copy  of  the  London  World  which 
had  a  sketch  of  Kipling  in  it,  and  a  mention  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  traveled  in  the  United  States.  According  to 
the  sketch  he  had  passed  through  Elmira.  This  remark, 
with  the  additional  fact  that  he  hailed  from  India,  at- 
tracted my  attention — also  Susy's.  She  went  to  her 
257 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

room  and  brought  his  card  from  its  place  in  the  frame  of 
her  mirror,  and  the  Quarry  Farm  visitor  stood  identified. 

A  theatrical  production  of  The  Prince  and  the 
Pauper,  dramatized  by  Mrs.  A.  S.  Richardson,  was 
one  of  the  events  of  this  period.  It  was  a  charming 
performance,  even  if  not  a  great  financial  success, 
and  little  Elsie  Leslie,  who  played  the  double  part 
of  the  Prince  and  Tom  Canty,  became  a  great  favor- 
ite in  the  Clemens  home.  She  was  also  a  favorite  of 
the  actor  and  playwright,  William  Gillette,1  and  once 
when  Clemens  and  Gillette  were  together  they  de- 
cided to  give  the  little  girl  a  surprise — a  pair  of  slip- 
pers, in  fact,  embroidered  by  themselves.  In  his 
presentation  letter  to  her,  Mark  Twain  wrote: 

Either  of  us  could  have  thought  of  a  single  slipper,  but 
it  took  both  of  us  to  think  of  two  slippers.  In  fact,  one 
of  us  did  think  of  one  slipper,  and  then,  quick  as  a  flash, 
the  other  thought  of  the  other  one. 

He  apologized  for  his  delay : 

You  see,  it  was  my  first  attempt  at  art,  and  I  couldn't 
rightly  get  the  hang  of  it,  along  at  first.  And  then  I  was 
so  busy  I  couldn't  get  a  chance  to  work  at  home,  and 
they  wouldn't  let  me  embroider  on  the  cars;  they  said  it 
made  the  other  passengers  afraid.  .  .  .  Take  the  slippers 
and  wear  them  next  your  heart,  Elsie  dear,  for  every 

1  Gillette  was  originally  a  Hartford  boy.  Mark  Twain  had  rec- 
ognized his  ability,  advanced  him  funds  with  which  to  complete 
his  dramatic  education,  and  Gillette's  first  engagement  seems  to 
have  been  with  the  Colonel  Sellers  company.  Mark  Twain  often 
advanced  money  in  the  interest  of  education.  A  young  sculptor  he 
sent  to  Paris  for  two  years'  study.  Among  others,  he  paid  the  way 
of  two  colored  students  through  college. 
258 


THE    "YANKEE" 

stitch  in  them  is  a  testimony  of  the  affection  which  two  of 
your  loyalest  friends  bear  you.  Every  single  stitch  cost 
us  blood.  I've  got  twice  as  many  pores  in  me  now  as  I 
used  to  have.  ...  Do  not  wear  these  slippers  in  public, 
dear;  it  would  only  excite  envy;  and,  as  like  as  not, 
somebody  would  try  to  shoot  you. 

For  five  years  Mark  Twain  had  not  published  a 
book.  Since  the  appearance  of  Huck  Finn  at  the 
end  of  1884  he  had  given  the  public  only  an  occasional 
magazine  story  or  article.  His  business  struggle  and 
the  type-setter  had  consumed  not  only  his  fortune, 
but  his  time  and  energy.  Now,  at  last,  however,  a 
book  was  ready.  A  Connecticut  Yankee  in  King 
Arthur's  Court  came  from  the  press  of  Webster  & 
Co.  at  the  end  of  1889,  a  handsome  book,  elaborately 
and  strikingly  illustrated  by  Dan  Beard — a  preten- 
tious volume  which  Mark  Twain  really  considered 
his  last.  "It's  my  swan-song,  my  retirement  from 
literature  permanently,"  he  wrote  Howells,  though 
certainly  he  was  young,  fifty-four,  to  have  reached 
this  conclusion. 

The  story  of  the  Yankee — a  fanciful  narrative  of 
a  skilled  Yankee  mechanic  swept  backward  through 
the  centuries  to  the  dim  day  of  Arthur  and  his  Round 
Table — is  often  grotesque  enough  in  its  humor,  but 
under  it  all  is  Mark  Twain's  great  humanity  in  fierce 
and  noble  protest  against  unjust  laws,  the  tyranny 
of  an  individual  or  of  a  ruling  class — oppression  of 
any  sort.  As  in  The  Prince  and  the  Pauper,  the 
wandering  heir  to  the  throne  is  brought  in  contact 
with  cruel  injustice  and  misery,  so  in  the  Yankee  the 
king  himself  becomes  one  of  a  band  of  fettered  slaves, 
259 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

and  through  degradation  and  horror  of  soul  acquires 
mercy  and  humility. 

The  Yankee  in  King  Arthur's  Court  is  a  splendidly 
imagined  tale.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  and 
William  Dean  Howells  have  ranked  it  very  high. 
Howells  once  wrote :  "  Of  all  the  fanciful  schemes  in 
fiction,  it  pleases  me  most."  The  Yankee  has  not 
held  its  place  in  public  favor  with  Mark  Twain's 
earlier  books,  but  it  is  a  wonderful  tale,  and  we 
cannot  afford  to  leave  it  unread. 

When  the  summer  came  again,  Mark  Twain  and 
his  family  decided  for  once  to  forego  Quarry  Farm 
for  a  season  in  the  Catskills,  and  presently  found 
themselves  located  in  a  cottage  at  Onteora  in  the 
midst  of  a  most  delightful  colony.  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes 
Dodge,  then  editor  of  St.  Nicholas,  was  there,  and 
Mrs.  Custer  and  Brander  Matthews  and  Lawrence 
Hutton  and  a  score  of  other  congenial  spirits. 
There  was  constant  visiting  from  one  cottage  to  an- 
other, with  frequent  gatherings  at  the  Inn,  which  was 
general  headquarters.  Susy  Clemens,  now  eighteen, 
was  a  central  figure,  brilliant,  eager,  intense,  ambi- 
tious for  achievement — lacking  only  in  physical 
strength.  She  was  so  flower-like,  it  seemed  always 
that  her  fragile  body  must  be  consumed  by  the  flame 
of  her  spirit.  It  was  a  happy  summer,  but  it  closed 
sadly.  Clemens  was  called  to  Keokuk  in  August, 
to  his  mother's  bedside.  A  few  weeks  later  came  the 
end,  and  Jane  Clemens  had  closed  her  long  and  useful 
life.  She  was  in  her  eighty-eighth  year.  A  little 
later,  at  Elmira,  followed  the  death  of  Mrs.  Clemens's 
mother,  a  sweet  and  gentle  woman. 
260 


THE    MACHINE.       GOOD-BY    TO    HARTFORD.      "jOAN" 
IS   BEGUN 

IT  was  hoped  that  the  profits  from  the  Yankee 
would  provide  for  all  needs  until  the  great  sums 
which  were  to  come  from  the  type-setter  should  come 
rolling  in.  The  book  did  yield  a  large  return,  but, 
alas !  the  hope  of  the  type-setter,  deferred  year  after 
year  and  month  after  month,  never  reached  fulfil- 
ment. Its  inventor,  James  W.  Paige,  whom  Mark 
Twain  once  called  "a  poet,  a  most  great  and  gen- 
uine poet,  whose  sublime  creations  are  written  in 
steel,"  during  ten  years  of  persistent  experiment  had 
created  one  of  the  most  marvelous  machines  ever 
constructed.  It  would  set  and  distribute  type, 
adjust  the  spaces,  detect  flaws — would  perform,  in 
fact,  anything  that  a  human  being  could  do,  with 
more  exactness  and  far  more  swiftness.  Mark 
Twain,  himself  a  practical  printer,  seeing  it  in  its 
earlier  stages  of  development,  and  realizing  what  a 
fortune  must  come  from  a  perfect  type-setting 
machine,  was  willing  to  furnish  his  last  dollar  to 
complete  the  invention.  But  there  the  trouble  lay. 
It  could  never  be  complete.  It  was  too  intricate, 
too  much  like  a  human  being,  too  easy  to  get  out  of 
18  261 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

order,  too  hard  to  set  right.  Paige,  fully  confident, 
always  believed  he  was  just  on  the  verge  of  per- 
fecting some  appliance  that  would  overcome  all 
difficulties,  and  the  machine  finally  consisted  of 
twenty  thousand  minutely  exact  parts,  each  of 
which  required  expert  workmanship  and  had  to  be 
fitted  by  hand.  Mark  Twain  once  wrote: 

All  other  wonderful  inventions  of  the  human  brain  sink 
pretty  nearly  into  commonplaces  contrasted  with  this 
awful,  mechanical  miracle. 

This  was  true,  and  it  conveys  the  secret  of  its 
failure.  It  was  too  much  of  a  miracle  to  be  reliable. 
Sometimes  it  would  run  steadily  for  hours,  but  then 
some  part  of  its  delicate  mechanism  would  fail,  and 
days,  even  weeks,  were  required  to  repair  it.  It  is 
all  too  long  a  story  to  be  given  here.  It  has  been 
fully  told  elsewhere.1  By  the  end  of  1890  Mark 
Twain  had  put  in  all  his  available  capital,  and  was 
heavily  in  debt.  He  had  spent  one  hundred  and 
ninety  thousand  dollars  on  the  machine,  no  penny 
of  which  would  ever  be  returned.  Outside  capital 
to  carry  on  the  enterprise  was  promised,  but  it 
failed  him.  Still  believing  that  there  were  "millions 
in  it,"  he  realized  that  for  the  present,  at  least,  he 
could  do  no  more. 

Two  things  were  clear:  he  must  fall  back  on  au- 
thorship for  revenue,  and  he  must  retrench.  In  the 
present  low  stage  of  his  fortunes  he  could  no  longer 
afford  to  live  in  the  Hartford  house.  He  decided  to 
take  the  family  abroad,  where  living  was  cheaper, 

1  In  Mark  Twain — A  Biography,  by  the  same  author. 
262 


GOOD-BY   TO   HARTFORD 

and  where  he  might  be  able  to  work  with  fewer 
distractions. 

He  began  writing  at  a  great  rate  articles  and  stories 
for  the  magazines.  He  hunted  out  the  old  play  he 
had  written  with  Howells  long  before,  and  made  a 
book  of  it,  The  American  Claimant.  Then,  in  June, 
1891,  they  closed  the  beautiful  Hartford  house, 
where  for  seventeen  years  they  had  found  an  ideal 
home;  where  the  children  had  grown  through  their 
sweet,  early  life;  where  the  world's  wisest  had  come 
and  gone,  pausing  a  little  to  laugh  with  the  world's 
greatest  merrymaker.  The  furniture  was  shrouded, 
the  curtains  drawn,  the  light  shut  away. 

While  the  carriage  was  waiting,  Mrs.  Clemens 
went  back  and  took  a  last  look  into  each  of  the 
rooms,  as  if  bidding  a  kind  of  good-by  to  the  past. 
Then  she  entered  the  carriage,  and  Patrick  McAleer, 
who  had  been  with  Mark  Twain  and  his  wife  since 
their  wedding-day,  drove  them  to  the  station  for  the 
last  time. 

Mark  Twain  had  a  contract  for  six  newspaper 
letters  at  one  thousand  dollars  each.  He  was 
troubled  with  rheumatism  in  his  arm,  and  wrote  his 
first  letter  from  Aix-les-Bains,  a  watering-place — a 
"health-factory,"  as  he  called  it — and  another  from 
Marienbad.  They  were  in  Germany  in  August,  and 
one  day  came  to  Heidelberg,  where  they  occupied 
their  old  apartment  of  thirteen  years  before,  room 
forty,  in  the  Schloss  Hotel,  with  its  far  prospect  of 
wood  and  hill,  the  winding  Neckar,  and  the  blue, 
distant  valley  of  the  Rhine.  Then,  presently,  they 
came  to  Switzerland,  to  Ouchy-Lausanne,  by  lovely 
263 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Lake  Geneva,  and  here  Clemens  left  the  family  and, 
with  a  guide  and  a  boatman,  went  drifting  down  the 
Rh6ne  in  a  curious,  flat-bottomed  craft,  thinking  to 
find  material  for  one  or  more  articles,  possibly  for  a 
book.  But  drifting  down  that  fair  river  through  still 


DOWN  THE   RHONE — SKETCH    BY  MARK  TWAIN 

September  days,  past  ancient,  drowsy  villages,  among 
sloping  vineyards,  where  grapes  were  ripening  in  the 
tranquil  sunlight,  was  too  restful  and  soothing  for 
work.  In  a  letter  home,  he  wrote: 

It's  too  delicious,  floating  with  the  swift  current  under 
the  awning  these  superb,  sunshiny  days,  in  peace  and 
quietness.  Some  of  the  curious  old  historical  towns 
strangely  persuade  me,  but  it's  so  lovely  afloat  that  I 
don't  stop,  but  view  them  from  the  outside  and  sail  on. 
...  I  want  to  do  all  the  rivers  of  Europe  in  an  open  boat 
in  summer  weather. 

One  afternoon,  about  fifteen  miles  below  the  city 
of  Valence,  he  made  a  discovery.  Dreamily  observ- 
ing the  eastward  horizon,  he  noticed  that  a  distant 
blue  mountain  presented  a  striking  profile  outline 
of  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  It  seemed  really  a  great 
264 


GOOD-BY   TO   HARTFORD 

natural  wonder,  and  he  stopped  that  night  at  the 
village  just  below,  Beauchastel,  a  hoary  huddle  of 
houses  with  the  roofs  all  run  together,  and  took  a 
room  at  the  little  hotel,  with  a  window  looking  to 
the  eastward,  from  which,  next  morning,  he  saw  the 
profile  of  the  great  stone  face,  wonderfully  outlined 
against  the  sunrise.  He  was  excited  over  his  dis- 
covery, and  made  a  descriptive  note  of  it  and  an 
outline  sketch.  Then,  drifting  farther  down  the 
river,  he  characteristically  forgot  all  about  it  and 
did  not  remember  it  again  for  ten  years,  by  which 
time  he  had  forgotten  the  point  on  the  river  where 
the  Napoleon  could  be  seen,  forgotten  even  that  he 
had  made  a  note  and  sketch  giving  full  details.  He 
wished  the  Napoleon  to  be  found  again,  believing, 
as  he  declared,  that  it  would  become  one  of  the  nat- 
ural wonders  of  the  world.  To  travelers  going  to 


ti^J^^tL/ 


THE  "LOST  NAPOLEON" — SKETCH  IN  NOTE-BOOK 
265 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

France  he  attempted  to  describe  it,  and  some  of 
these  tried  to  find  it;  but,  as  he  located  it  too  far 
down  the  Rh6ne,  no  one  reported  success,  and  in 
time  he  spoke  of  his  discovery  as  the  "Lost  Napo- 
leon." It  was  not  until  after  Mark  Twain's  death 
that  it  was  rediscovered,  and  then  by  the  writer  of 
this  memoir,  who,  having  Mark  Twain's  note-book,1 
with  its  exact  memoranda,  on  another  September 
day,  motoring  up  the  Rh6ne,  located  the  blue  profile 
of  the  reclining  Napoleon  opposite  the  gray  village 
of  Beauchastel.  It  is  a  really  remarkable  effigy,  and 
deserves  to  be  visited. 

Clemens  finished  his  trip  at  Aries — a  beautiful  trip 
from  beginning  to  end,  but  without  literary  result. 
When  he  undertook  to  write  of  it,  he  found  that  it 
lacked  incident,  and,  what  was  worse,  it  lacked 
humor.  To  undertake  to  create  both  was  too  much. 
After  a  few  chapters  he  put  the  manuscript  aside, 
unfinished,  and  so  it  remains  to  this  day. 

The  Clemens  family  spent  the  winter  in  Berlin,  a 
gay  winter,  with  Mark  Twain  as  one  of  the  distin- 
guished figures  of  the  German  capital.  He  was  re- 
ceived everywhere  and  made  much  of.  Once  a  small, 
choice  dinner  was  given  him  by  Kaiser  William  II., 
and,  later,  a  breakfast  by  the  Empress.  His  books 
were  great  favorites  in  the  German  royal  family. 
The  Kaiser  particularly  enjoyed  the  Mississippi  book, 
while  the  essay  on  "The  Awful  German  Language," 
in  the  Tramp  Abroad,  he  pronounced  one  of  the 
finest  pieces  of  humor  ever  written.  Mark  Twain's 

1  At  Mark  Twain's  death  his  various  literary  effects  passed  into 
the  hands  of  his  biographer  and  literary  executor,  the  present  writer. 
266 


GOOD-BY   TO   HARTFORD 

books  were  favorites,  in  fact,  throughout  Germany. 
The  door-man  in  his  hotel  had  them  all  in  his  little 
room,  and,  discovering  one  day  that  their  guest, 
Samuel  L.  Clemens,  and  Mark  Twain  were  one,  he 
nearly  exploded  with  excitement.  Dragging  the 
author  to  his  small  room,  he  pointed  to  the 
shelf: 

"There,"  he  said,  "you  wrote  them!  I've  found  it 
out.  Ach!  I  did  not  know  it  before,  and  I  ask  a 
million  pardons." 

Affairs  were  not  going  well  in  America,  and  in 
June  Clemens  made  a  trip  over  to  see  what  could  be 
done.  Probably  he  did  very  little,  and  he  was  back 
presently  at  Nauheim,  a  watering-place,  where  he 
was  able  to  work  rather  quietly.  He  began  two 
stories — one  of  them,  "The  Extraordinary  Twins," 
which  was  the  first  form  of  Pudd'nhead  Wilson;  the 
other,  "Tom  Sawyer  Abroad,"  for  St.  Nicholas. 
Twichell  came  to  Nauheim  during  the  summer,  and 
one  day  he  and  Clemens  ran  over  to  Homburg,  not  far 
away.  The  Prince  of  Wales  (later  King  Edward  VII.) 
was  there,  and  Clemens  and  Twichell,  walking  in  the 
park,  met  the  Prince  with  the  British  ambassador, 
and  were  presented.  Twichell,  in  an  account  of  the 
meeting,  said: 

The  meeting  between  the  Prince  and  Mark  was  a  most 
cordial  one  on  both  sides,  and  presently  the  Prince  took 
Mark  Twain's  arm  and  the  two  marched  up  and  down, 
talking  earnestly  together,  the  Prince  solid,  erect,  and 
soldier-like;  Clemens  weaving  along  in  his  curious,  swing- 
ing gait,  in  full  tide  of  talk,  and  brandishing  a  sun 
umbrella  of  the  most  scandalous  description. 
267 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

At  Villa  Viviani,  an  old,  old  mansion  outside  of 
Florence,  on  the  hill  toward  Settignano,  Mark 
Twain  finished  Tom  Sawyer  Abroad,  also  Pudd'nhead 
Wilson,  and  wrote  the  first  half  of  a  book  that 
really  had  its  beginning  on  the  day  when,  an 
apprentice-boy  in  Hannibal,  he  had  found  a  stray 
leaf  from  the  pathetic  story  of  Joan  of  Arc.  All  his 
life  she  had  been  his  idol,  and  he  had  meant  some 
day  to  write  of  her.  Now,  in  this  weather-stained 
old  palace,  looking  down  on  Florence,  medieval  and 
hazy,  and  across  to  the  villa-dotted  hills,  he  began 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  stories  ever  written,  The 
Personal  Recollections  of  Joan  of  Arc.  He  wrote  in 
the  first  person,  assuming  the  character  of  Joan's 
secretary,  Sieur  Louis  de  Conte,  who  in  his  old  age 
is  telling  the  great  tale  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans.  It 
was  Mark  Twain's  purpose,  this  time,  to  publish 
anonymously.  Walking  the  floor  one  day  at  Viviani, 
and  smoking  vigorously,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Clemens 
and  Susy: 

"I  shall  never  be  accepted  seriously  over  my  own 
signature.  People  always  want  to  laugh  over  what 
I  write,  and  are  disappointed  if  they  don't  find  a 
joke  in  it.  This  is  to  be  a  serious  book.  It  means 
more  to  me  than  anything  else  I  have  ever  under- 
taken. I  shall  write  it  anonymously." 

So  it  was  that  the  gentle  Sieur  de  Conte  took  up 
the  pen,  and  the  tale  of  Joan  was  begun  in  the  ancient 
garden  of  Viviani,  a  setting  appropriate  to  its  lovely 
form. 

He  wrote  rapidly  when  once  his  plan  was  perfected 
and  his  material  arranged.  The  reading  of  his 
268 


"JOAN"    IS    BEGUN 

youth  and  manhood  was  now  recalled,  not  merely  as 
reading,  but  as  remembered  reality.  It  was  as  if 
he  were  truly  the  old  Sieur  de  Conte,  saturated  with 
memories,  pouring  out  the  tender,  tragic  tale.  In  six 
weeks  he  had  written  one  hundred  thousand  words — • 
remarkable  progress  at  any  time,  the  more  so  when 
we  consider  that  some  of  the  authorities  he  con- 
sulted were  in  a  foreign  tongue.  He  had  always 
more  or  less  kept  up  his  study  of  French,  begun  so  long 
ago  on  the  river,  and  it  stood  him  now  in  good  stead. 
Still,  it  was  never  easy  for  him,  and  the  multitude 
of  notes  that  still  exist  along  the  margin  of  his  French 
authorities  show  the  magnitude  of  his  work.  Others 
of  the  family  went  down  into  the  city  almost  daily, 
but  he  stayed  in  the  still  garden  with  Joan.  Florence 
and  its  suburbs  were  full  of  delightful  people,  some 
of  them  old  friends.  There  were  luncheons,  dinners, 
teas,  dances,  and  the  like  always  in  progress,  but  he 
resisted  most  of  these  things,  preferring  to  remain 
the  quaint  old  Sieur  de  Conte,  following  again  the 
banner  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  marshaling  her  twi- 
light armies  across  his  illumined  page. 

But  the  next  spring,  March,  1893,  he  was  obliged 
to  put  aside  the  manuscript  and  hurry  to  America 
again,  fruitlessly,  of  course,  for  a  financial  stress  was 
on  the  land;  the  business  of  Webster  &  Co.  was  on 
the  down-grade — nothing  could  save  it.  There  was 
new  hope  in  the  old  type-setting  machine,  but  his 
faith  in  the  resurrection  was  not  strong.  The  strain 
of  his  affairs  was  telling  on  him.  The  business  owed 
a  great  sum,  with  no  prospect  of  relief.  Back  in 
269 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Europe  again,  Mark  Twain  wrote  F.  D.  Hall,  his 
business  manager  in  New  York: 

I  am  terribly  tired  of  business.  I  am  by  nature  and 
disposition  unfit  for  it,  and  I  want  to  get  out  of  it.  I  am 
standing  on  a  volcano.  Get  me  out  of  business. 

Tantalizing  letters  continued  to  come,  holding  out 
hope  in  the  business — the  machine — in  any  straw 
that  promised  a  little  support  through  the  financial 
storm.  Again  he  wrote  Hall: 

Great  Scott,  but  it's  a  long  year  for  you  and  me!  I 
never  knew  the  almanac  to  drag  so.  ...  I  watch  for  your 
letters  hungrily — just  as  I  used  to  watch  for  the  telegram 
saying  the  machine  was  finished — but  when  "next  week 
certainly"  suddenly  swelled  into  "three  weeks  sure,"  I 
recognized  the  old  familiar  tune  I  used  to  hear  so  much. 

W don't  know  what  sickheartedness  is,  but  he  is  in 

a  fair  way  to  find  out. 

They  closed  Viviani  in  June  and  returned  to  Ger- 
many. By  the  end  of  August  Clemens  could  stand 
no  longer  the  strain  of  his  American  affairs,  and, 
leaving  the  family  at  some  German  baths,  he  once 
more  sailed  for  New  York. 


LI 


THE  FAILURE  OF  WEBSTER  &  CO.     AROUND  THE  WORLD. 
SORROW 

IN  a  room  at  the  Players  Club — "a  cheap  room," 
he  wrote  home,  "at  $1.50  per  day" — Mark  Twain 
spent  the  winter,  hoping  against  hope  to  weather  the 
financial  storm.  His  fortunes  were  at  a  lower  ebb 
than  ever  before;  lower  even  than  during  those 
bleak  mining  days  among  the  Esmeralda  hills.  Then 
there  had  been  no  one  but  himself,  and  he  was  young. 
Now,  at  fifty-eight,  he  had  precious  lives  dependent 
upon  him,  and  he  was  weighed  down  by  debt.  The 
liabilities  of  his  firm  were  fully  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars — sixty  thousand  of  which  were  owing  to  Mrs. 
Clemens  for  money  advanced — but  the  large  re- 
maining sum  was  due  to  banks,  printers,  binders, 
and  the  manufacturers  of  paper.  A  panic  was  on 
the  land  and  there  was  no  business.  What  he  was 
to  do  Clemens  did  not  know.  He  spent  most  of  his 
days  in  his  room,  trying  to  write,  and  succeeded  in 
finishing  several  magazine  articles.  Outwardly  cheer- 
ful, he  hid  the  bitterness  of  his  situation. 

A  few,  however,  knew  the  true  state  of  his  affairs. 
One  of  these  one  night  introduced  him  to  Henry  H. 
Rogers,  the  Standard  Oil  millionaire. 
271 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

"Mr.  Clemens,"  said  Mr.  Rogers,  "I  was  one  of 
your  early  admirers.  I  heard  you  lecture  a  long 
time  ago,  on  the  Sandwich  Islands." 

They  sat  down  at  a  table,  and  Mark  Twain  told 
amusing  stories.  Rogers  was  in  a  perpetual  gale  of 
laughter.  They  became  friends  from  that  evening, 
and  in  due  time  the  author  had  confessed  to  the 
financier  all  his  business  worries. 

"You  had  better  let  me  look  into  things  a  little," 
Rogers  said,  and  he  advised  Clemens  to  "stop  walk- 
ing the  floor." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mark  Twain  to  be  willing 
to  unload  his  affairs  upon  any  one  that  he  thought 
able  to  bear  the  burden.  He  became  a  new  man  over- 
night. With  Henry  Rogers  in  charge,  life  was  once 
more  worth  while.  He  accepted  invitations  from 
the  Rogers  family  and  from  many  others,  and  was 
presently  so  gay,  so  widely  sought,  and  seen  in 
so  many  places  that  one  of  his  acquaintances, 
"Jamie"  Dodge,  dubbed  him  the  "Belle  of  New 
York." 

Henry  Rogers,  meanwhile,  was  "looking  into 
things."  He  had  reasonable  faith  in  the  type- 
machine,  and  advanced  a  large  sum  on  the  chance  of 
its  proving  a  success.  This,  of  course,  lifted  Mark 
Twain  quite  into  the  clouds.  Daily  he  wrote  and 
cabled  all  sorts  of  glowing  hopes  to  his  family,  then 
in  Paris.  Once  he  wrote : 

The  ship  is  in  sight  now.  .  .  .  When  the  anchor  is 
down,  then   I   shall  say:    Farewell — a  long  farewell — to 
business!    I  will  never  touch  it  again!    I  will  live  in  liter- 
ature, I  will  wallow  in  it,  revel  in  it;   I  will  swim  in  ink! 
272 


THE   FAILURE  OF  WEBSTER  &  CO. 

Once  he  cabled,  "Expect  good  news  in  ten  days"; 
and  a  little  later,  "Look  out  for  good  news" ;  and  in  a 
few  days,  "Nearing  success." 

Those  Sellers-like  messages  could  not  but  appeal 
to  Mrs.  Clemens's  sense  of  humor,  even  in  those 
dark  days.  To  her  sister  she  wrote,  "They  make  me 
laugh,  for  they  are  so  like  my  beloved  Colonel." 

The  affairs  of  Webster  &  Co.  Mr.  Rogers  found 
in  a  bad  way.  When,  at  last,  in  April,  1894,  the 
crisis  came — a  demand  by  the  chief  creditors  for 
payment — he  advised  immediate  assignment  as  the 
only  course. 

So  the  firm  of  Webster  &  Co.  closed  its  doors. 
The  business  which  less  than  ten  years  before  had 
begun  so  prosperously  had  ended  in  failure.  Mark 
Twain,  nearing  fifty-nine,  was  bankrupt.  When  all 
the  firm's  effects  had  been  sold  and  applied  on  the 
accounts,  he  was  still  more  than  seventy  thousand 
dollars  in  debt.  Friends  stepped  in  and  offered  to 
lend  him  money,  but  he  declined  these  offers. 
Through  Mr.  Rogers  a  basis  of  settlement  at  fifty 
cents  on  the  dollar  was  arranged,  and  Mark  Twain 
said,  "Give  me  time,  and  I  will  pay  the  other  fifty." 

No  one  but  his  wife  and  Mr.  Rogers,  however,  be- 
lieved that  at  his  age  he  would  be  able  to  make  good 
the  promise.  Many  advised  him  not  to  attempt  it, 
but  to  settle  once  and  for  all  on  the  legal  basis  as 
arranged.  Sometimes,  in  moments  of  despondency, 
he  almost  surrendered.  Once  he  said: 

"I  need  not  dream  of  paying  it.  I  never  could 
manage  it." 

But  these  were  only  the  hard  moments.  For  the 
273 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

most  part  he  kept  up  good  heart  and  confidence. 
It  is  true  that  he  now  believed  again  in  the  future 
of  the  type-setter,  and  that  returns  from  it  would 
pay  him  out  of  bankruptcy.  But  later  in  the  year 
this  final  hope  was  taken  away.  Mr.  Rogers  wrote 
to  him  that  in  the  final  test  the  machine  had  failed 
to  prove  itself  practical  and  that  the  whole  project 
had  been  finally  and  permanently  abandoned.  The 
shock  of  disappointment  was  heavy  for  the  moment, 
but  then  it  was  over — completely  over — for  that  old 
mechanical  demon,  that  vampire  of  invention  that 
had  sapped  his  fortune  so  long,  was  laid  at  last. 
The  worst  had  happened;  there  was  nothing  more 
to  dread.  Within  a  week  Mark  Twain  (he  was  now 
back  in  Paris  with  the  family)  had  settled  down 
to  work  once  more  on  the  Recollections  of  Joan,  and 
all  mention  and  memory  of  the  type-setter  was  for- 
ever put  away.  The  machine  stands  to-day  in  the 
Sibley  College  of  Engineering,  where  it  is  exhibited 
as  the  costliest  piece  of  mechanism  for  its  size  ever 
constructed.  Mark  Twain  once  received  a  letter 
from  an  author  who  had  written  a  book  to  assist  in- 
ventors and  patentees,  asking  for  his  indorsement. 
He  replied : 

DEAR  SIR, — I  have,  as  you  say,  been  interested  in  patents 
and  patentees.    If  your  book  tells  how  to  exterminate  in- 
ventors, send  me  nine  editions.    Send  them  by  express. 
Very  truly  yours, 

S.  L.  CLEMENS. 

Those  were  economical  days.    There  was  no  in- 
come except  from  the  old  books,  and  at  the  time 
274 


THE  FAILURE  OF  WEBSTER  &  CO. 

this  was  not  large.  The  Clemens  family,  however, 
was  cheerful,  and  Mark  Twain  was  once  more  in 
splendid  working  form.  The  story  of  Joan  hurried 
to  its  tragic  conclusion.  Each  night  he  read  to  the 
family  what  he  had  written  that  day,  and  Susy, 
who  was  easily  moved,  would  say,  "Wait — wait  till 
I  get  my  handkerchief,"  and  one  night  when  the  last 
pages  had  been  written  and  read,  and  the  fearful 
scene  at  Rouen  had  been  depicted,  Susy  wrote  in 
her  diary,  "To-night  Joan  of  Arc  was  burned  at  the 
stake!"  Meaning  that  the  book  was  finished. 


MARK  TWAIN'S   OPINION   OF   HIS   "  JOAN   OF   ARC"   BOOK, 
WRITTEN   ON   HIS   730   BIRTHDAY 

275 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Susy  herself  had  fine  literary  taste,  and  might  have 
written  had  not  her  greater  purpose  been  to  sing. 
There  are  fragments  of  her  writing  that  show  the  true 
literary  touch.  Both  Susy  and  her  father  cared  more 
for  Joan  than  for  any  of  the  former  books.  To  Mr. 
Rogers  Clemens  wrote,  "Possibly  the  book  may  not 
sell,  but  that  is  nothing — it  was  written  for  love." 
It  was  placed  serially  with  Harper's  Magazine  and 
appeared  anonymously,  but  the  public  soon  identified 
the  inimitable  touch  of  Mark  Twain. 

It  was  now  the  spring  of  1895,  and  Mark  Twain 
had  decided  upon  a  new  plan  to  restore  his  fortunes. 
Platform  work  had  always  paid  him  well,  and  though 
he  disliked  it  now  more  than  ever,  he  had  resolved 
upon  something  unheard  of  in  that  line — nothing 
less,  in  fact,  than  a  platform  tour  around  the  world. 
In  May,  with  the  family,  he  sailed  for  America,  and 
after  a  month  or  two  of  rest  at  Quarry  Farm  he  set 
out  with  Mrs.  Clemens  and  Clara  and  with  his 
American  agent,  J.  B.  Pond,  for  the  Pacific  coast. 
Susy  and  Jean  remained  behind  with  their  aunt  at 
the  farm.  The  travelers  left  Elmira  at  night,  and 
they  always  remembered  the  picture  of  Susy,  stand- 
ing under  the  electric  light  of  the  railway  platform, 
waving  them  good-by. 

Mark  Twain's  tour  of  the  world  was  a  success  from 
the  beginning.  Everywhere  he  was  received  with 
splendid  honors — in  America,  in  Australia,  in  New 
Zealand,  in  India,  in  Ceylon,  in  South  Africa — 
wherever  he  went  his  welcome  was  a  grand  ovation, 
his  theaters  and  halls  were  never  large  enough  to 
276 


AROUND   THE   WORLD 

hold  his  audiences.  With  the  possible  exception  of 
General  Grant's  long  tour  in  1878-9  there  had 
hardly  been  a  more  gorgeous  progress  than  Mark 
Twain's  trip  around  the  world.  Everywhere  they 
were  overwhelmed  with  attention  and  gifts.  We  can- 
not begin  to  tell  the  story  of  that  journey  here.  In 
Following  the  Equator  the  author  himself  tells  it  in  his 
own  delightful  fashion. 

From  time  to  time  along  the  way  Mark  Twain 
forwarded  his  accumulated  profits  to  Mr.  Rogers  to 
apply  against  his  debts,  and  by  the  time  they  sailed 
from  South  Africa  the  sum  was  large  enough  to 
encourage  him  to  believe  that,  with  the  royalties  to 
be  derived  from  the  book  he  would  write  of  his 
travels,  he  might  be  able  to  pay  in  full  and  so  face 
the  world  once  more  a  free  man.  Their  long  trip — 
it  had  lasted  a  full  year — was  nearing  its  end.  They 
would  spend  the  winter  in  London — Susy  and  Jean 
were  notified  to  join  them  there.  They  would  all  be 
reunited  again.  The  outlook  seemed  bright  once 
more. 

They  reached  England  the  last  of  July.  Susy  and1 
Jean,  with  Katy  Leary,  were  to  arrive  on  the  i2th 
of  August.  But  the  i2th  did  not  bring  them — it 
brought,  instead,  a  letter.  Susy  was  not  well,  the 
letter  said;  the  sailing  had  been  postponed.  The 
letter  added  that  it  was  nothing  serious,  but  her 
parents  cabled  at  once  for  later  news.  Receiving  no 
satisfactory  answer,  Mrs.  Clemens,  full  of  fore- 
bodings, prepared  to  sail  with  Clara  for  America. 
Clemens  would  remain  in  London  to  arrange  for  the 
winter  residence.  A  cable  came,  saying  Susy's  re- 
19  277 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

covery  would  be  slow  but  certain.  Mrs.  Clemens 
and  Clara  sailed  immediately.  In  some  notes  he 
once  dictated,  Mark  Twain  said: 


That  was  the  isth  of  August,  1896.  Three  days  later, 
when  my  wife  and  Clara  were  about  half-way  across  the 
ocean,  I  was  standing  in  our  dining-room,  thinking  of 
nothing  in  particular,  when  a  cablegram  was  put  into  my 
hand.  It  said,  "Susy  was  peacefully  released  to-day." 

Mark  Twain's  life  had  contained  other  tragedies, 
but  no  other  that  equaled  this  one.  The  dead  girl 
had  been  his  heart's  pride;  it  was  a  year  since  they 
parted,  and  now  he  knew  he  would  never  see  her 
again.  The  blow  had  found  him  alone  and  among 
strangers.  In  that  day  he  could  not  even  reach  out 
to  those  upon  the  ocean,  drawing  daily  nearer  to  the 
heartbreak. 

Susy  Clemens  had  died  in  the  old  Hartford  home. 
She  had  been  well  for  a  time  at  the  farm,  but  then 
her  health  had  declined.  She  worked  continuously 
at  her  singing  lessons  and  overtried  her  strength. 
Then  she  went  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Charles  Dudley 
Warner,  in  Hartford;  but  she  did  not  rest,  working 
harder  than  ever  at  her  singing.  Finally  she  was 
told  that  she  must  consult  a  physician.  The  doctor 
came  and  prescribed  soothing  remedies,  and  advised 
that  she  have  the  rest  and  quiet  of  her  own  home. 
Mrs.  Crane  came  from  Elmira,  also  her  uncle  Charles 
Langdon.  But  Susy  became  worse,  and  a  few  days 
later  her  malady  was  pronounced  meningitis.  This 
was  the  1  5th  of  August,  the  day  that  her  mother 
and  Clara  sailed  from  England.  She  was  delirious 
278 


SORROW 

and  burning  with  fever,  but  at  last  sank  into  uncon- 
sciousness. She  died  three  days  later,  and  on  the 
night  that  Mrs.  Clemens  and  Clara  arrived  was 
taken  to  Elmira  for  burial. 

They  laid  her  beside  the  little  brother  that  had 
died  so  long  before,  and  ordered  a  headstone  with 
some  lines  which  they  had  found  in  Australia,  written 
by  Robert  Richardson: 

Warm  summer  sun,  shine  kindly  here; 
Warm  southern  wind,  blow  softly  here; 
Green  sod  above,  lie  light,  lie  light ! — 
Good  night,  dear  heart,  good  night,  good  night. 


LII 

EUROPEAN  ECONOMIES 

WITH  Clara  and  Jean,  Mrs.  Clemens  returned 
to  England,  and  in  a  modest  house  on  Ted- 
worth  Square,  a  secluded  corner  of  London,  the 
stricken  family  hid  themselves  away  for  the  winter. 
Few,  even  of  their  closest  friends,  knew  of  their 
whereabouts.  In  time  the  report  was  circulated 
that  Mark  Twain,  old,  sick,  and  deserted  by  his 
family,  was  living  in  poverty,  toiling  to  pay  his 
debts.  Through  the  London  publishers  a  distant 
cousin,  Dr.  James  Clemens,  of  St.  Louis,  located 
the  house  on  Tedworth  Square,  and  wrote,  offering 
assistance.  He  was  invited  to  call,  and  found  a 
quiet  place — the  life  there  simple — but  not  poverty. 
By  and  by  there  was  another  report — this  time  that 
Mark  Twain  was  dead.  A  reporter  found  his  way 
to  Tedworth  Square,  and,  being  received  by  Mark 
Twain  himself,  asked  what  he  should  say. 

Clemens  regarded  him  gravely,  then,  in  his  slow, 
nasal  drawl,  "Say — that  the  report  of  my  death — 
has  been  grossly — exaggerated,"  a  remark  that  a  day 
later  was  amusing  both  hemispheres.  He  could  not 
help  his  humor;  it  was  his  natural  form  of  utterance 
— the  medium  for  conveying  fact,  fiction,  satire, 
280 


EUROPEAN    ECONOMIES 

philosophy.  Whatever  his  depth  of  despair,  the 
quaint  surprise  of  speech  would  come,  and  it  would 
be  so  until  his  last  day. 

By  November  he  was  at  work  on  his  book  of 
travel,  which  he  first  thought  of  calling  "Around  the 
World."  He  went  out  not  at  all  that  winter,  and  the 
work  progressed  steadily,  and  was  complete  by  the 
following  May  (1897). 

Meantime,  during  his  trip  around  the  world,  Mark 
Twain's  publishers  had  issued  two  volumes  of  his 
work  —  the  Joan  of  Arc  book,  and  another  Tom 
Sawyer  book,  the  latter  volume  combining  two  rather 
short  stories,  "Tom  Sawyer  Abroad,"  published  seri- 
ally in  St.  Nicholas,  and  "Tom  Sawyer,  Detective." 
The  Joan  of  Arc  book,  the  tenderest  and  most  ex- 
quisite of  all  Mark  Twain's  work — a  tale  told  with 
the  deepest  sympathy  and  the  rarest  delicacy — was 
dedicated  by  the  author  to  his  wife,  as  being  the 
only  piece  of  his  writing  which  he  considered  worthy 
of  this  honor.  He  regarded  it  as  his  best  book,  and 
this  was  an  opinion  that  did  not  change.  Twelve 
years  later — it  was  on  his  seventy- third  birthday — 
he  wrote  as  his  final  verdict,  November  30,  1908: 

I  like  the  Joan  of  Arc  best  of  all  my  books;  and  it  is 
the  best;  I  know  it  perfectly  well,  and,  besides,  it  fur- 
nished me  seven  times  the  pleasure  afforded  me  by  any 
of  the  others;  twelve  years  of  preparation  and  two  years 
of  writing.  The  others  needed  no  preparation  and  got 
none.  MARK  TWAIN. 

The  public  at  first  did  not  agree  with  the  author's 
estimate,  and  the  demand  for  the  book  was  not 
281 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

large.  But  the  public  amended  its  opinion.  The 
demand  for  Joan  increased  with  each  year  until  its 
sales  ranked  with  the  most  popular  of  Mark  Twain's 
books. 

The  new  stories  of  Tom  and  Huck  have  never 
been  as  popular  as  the  earlier  adventures  of  this  pair 
of  heroes.  The  shorter  stories  are  less  important  and 
perhaps  less  alive,  but  they  are  certainly  very  read- 
able tales,  and  nobody  but  Mark  Twain  could  have 
written  them. 

Clemens  began  some  new  stories  when  his  travel 
book  was  out  of  the  way,  but  presently  with  the 
family  was  on  the  way  to  Switzerland  for  the  sum- 
mer. They  lived  at  Weggis,  on  Lake  Lucerne,  in 
the  Villa  Buhlegg — a  very  modest  five-franc-a-day 
pension,  for  they  were  economizing  and  putting 
away  money  for  the  debts.  Mark  Twain  was  not  in 
a  mood  for  work,  and,  besides,  proofs  of  the  new  book 
— Following  the  Equator,  as  it  is  now  called — were 
coming  steadily.  But  on  the  anniversary  of  Susy's 
death  (August  i8th)  he  wrote  a  poem,  "In  Memo- 
riam,"  in  which  he  touched  a  literary  height  never 
before  attained.  It  was  published  in  Harper's 
Magazine,  and  now  appears  in  his  collected  works. 

Across  from  Villa  Buhlegg  on  the  lake-front  there 
was  a  small  shaded  inclosure  where  he  loved  to  sit 
and  look  out  on  the  blue  water  and  lofty  mountains, 
one  of  which,  Rigi,  he  and  Twichell  had  climbed 
nineteen  years  before.  The  little  retreat  is  still 
there,  and  to-day  one  of  the  trees  bears  a  tablet  (in 
German),  "Mark  Twain's  Rest." 

Autumn  found  the  family  in  Vienna,  located  for 
282 


EUROPEAN    ECONOMIES 

the  winter  at  the  H6tel  Metropole.  Mrs.  Clemens 
realized  that  her  daughters  must  no  longer  be  de- 
prived of  social  and  artistic  advantages.  For  herself, 
she  longed  only  for  retirement. 

Vienna  is  always  a  gay  city,  a  center  of  art  and 
culture  and  splendid  social  functions.  From  the 
moment  of  his  arrival,  Mark  Twain  and  his  family 
were  in  the  midst  of  affairs.  Their  room  at  the  Me- 
tropole became  an  assembling-place  for  distinguished 
members  of  the  several  circles  that  go  to  make  up 
the  dazzling  Viennese  life.  Mrs.  Clemens,  to  her 
sister  in  America,  once  wrote : 

Such  funny  combinations  are  here  sometimes:  one 
duke,  several  counts,  several  writers,  several  barons,  two 
princes,  newspaper  women,  etc. 

Mark  Twain  found  himself  the  literary  lion  of  the 
Austrian  capital.  Every  club  entertained  him  and 
roared  with  delight  at  his  German  speeches.  Wher- 
ever he  appeared  on  the  streets  he  was  recognized. 

"Let  him  pass!  Don't  you  see  it  is  Heir  Mark 
Twain!"  commanded  an  officer  to  a  guard  who,  in 
the  midst  of  a  great  assemblage,  had  presumed  to 
bar  the  way. 


LIII 

MARK  TWAIN  PAYS   HIS   DEBTS 

MARK  TWAIN  wrote  much  and  well  during 
this  period,  in  spite  of  his  social  life.  His 
article  "Concerning  the  Jews"  was  written  that 
first  winter  in  Vienna — a  fine  piece  of  special  plead- 
ing; also  the  greatest  of  his  short  stories — one  of 
the  greatest  of  all  short  stories — "The  Man  that 
Corrupted  Hadleyburg." 

But  there  were  good  reasons  why  he  should  write 
better  now;  his  mind  was  free  of  a  mighty  load — 
he  had  paid  his  debts ! 

Soon  after  his  arrival  in  Vienna  he  had  written 
to  Mr.  Rogers: 

Let  us  begin  on  those  debts.  I  cannot  bear  the  weight 
any  longer.  It  totally  unfits  me  for  work. 

He  had  accumulated  a  large  sum  for  the  purpose, 
and  the  royalties  from  the  new  book  were  beginning 
to  roll  in.  Payment  of  the  debts  was  begun.  At 
the  end  of  December  he  wrote  again : 

Land,  we  are  glad  to  see  those  debts  diminishing.    For 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  am  getting  more  pleasure  from 
paying  money  out  than  from  pulling  it  in. 
284 


MARK   TWAIN    PAYS    HIS    DEBTS 

A  few  days  later  he  wrote  to  Howells  that  he  had 
"turned  the  corner";  and  again: 

We've  lived  close  to  the  bone  and  saved  every  cent  we 
could,  and  there's  no  undisputed  claim  now  that  we  can't 
cash.  ...  I  hope  you  will  never  get  the  like  of  the  load 
saddled  on  to  you  that  was  saddled  on  to  me,  three  years 
ago.  And  yet  there  is  such  a  solid  pleasure  in  paying  the 
things  that  I  reckon  it  is  worth  while  to  get  into  that 
kind  of  a  hobble,  after  all.  Mrs.  Clemens  gets  millions 
of  delight  out  of  it,  and  the  children  have  never  uttered 
one  complaint  about  the  scrimping  from  the  beginning. 

By  the  end  of  January,  1898,  Clemens  had  accu- 
mulated enough  money  to  make  the  final  payments  to 
his  creditors.  At  the  time  of  his  failure  he  had 
given  himself  five  years  to  achieve  this  result.  But 
he  had  needed  less  than  four.  A  report  from  Mr. 
Rogers  showed  that  a  balance  of  thirteen  thousand 
dollars  would  remain  to  his  credit  after  the  last 
accounts  were  wiped  away. 

Clemens  had  tried  to  keep  his  money  affairs  out 
of  the  newspapers,  but  the  payment  of  the  final 
claims  could  not  be  concealed,  and  the  press  made 
the  most  of  it.  Head-lines  shouted  it.  Editorials 
heralded  Mark  Twain  as  a  second  Walter  Scott,  be- 
cause Scott,  too,  had  labored  to  lift  a  great  burden 
of  debt.  Never  had  Mark  Twain  been  so  beloved 
by  his  fellow-men. 

One  might  suppose  now  that  he  had  had  enough 
of  invention  and  commercial  enterprises  of  every 
sort — that  is,  one  who  did  not  know  Mark  Twain 
might  suppose  this — but  it  would  not  be  true.  With- 
in a  month  after  his  debts  were  paid  he  was  nego- 
285 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

tiating  with  the  Austrian  inventor  Szczepanik  for 
the  American  rights  in  a  wonderful  carpet-pattern 
machine,  and,  Sellers-like,  was  planning  to  organize 
a  company  with  a  capital  of  fifteen  hundred  million 
dollars  to  control  the  carpet-weaving  industries  of 
the  world.  He  wrote  to  Mr.  Rogers  about  the 
great  scheme,  inviting  the  Standard  Oil  to  "come 
in";  but  the  plan  failed  to  bear  the  test  of  Mr. 
Rogers's  investigation  and  was  heard  of  no  more. 

Samuel  Clemens's  obligation  to  Henry  Rogers  was 
very  great,  but  it  was  not  quite  the  obligation  that 
many  supposed  it  to  be.  It  was  often  asserted  that 
the  financier  lent,  even  gave,  the  humorist  large 
sums,  and  pointed  out  opportunities  for  speculation. 
No  part  of  this  statement  is  true.  Mr.  Rogers 
neither  lent  nor  gave  Mark  Twain  money,  and  never 
allowed  him  to  speculate  when  he  could  prevent  it. 
He  sometimes  invested  Mark  Twain's  own  funds  for 
him,  but  he  never  bought  for  him  a  share  of  stock 
without  money  in  hand  to  pay  for  it  in  full — money 
belonging  to,  and  earned  by,  Clemens  himself. 

What  Henry  Rogers  did  give  to  Mark  Twain 
was  his  priceless  counsel  and  time — gifts  more 
precious  than  any  mere  sum  of  money — favors  that 
Mark  Twain  could  accept  without  humiliation.  He 
did  accept  them,  and  never  ceased  to  be  grateful. 
He  rarely  wrote  without  expressing  his  gratitude, 
and  we  get  the  size  of  Mark  Twain's  obligation  when 
in  one  letter  we  read : 

I  have  abundant  peace  of  mind  again — no  sense  of 
burden.  Work  is  become  a  pleasure — it  is  not  labor 
any  longer. 

286 


MARK  TWAIN  PAYS  HIS  DEBTS 

He  wrote  much  and  well,  mainly  magazine  articles, 
including  some  of  those  chapters  later  gathered  in 
his  book  on  Christian  Science.  He  reveled  like  a 
boy  in  his  new  freedom  and  fortunes,  in  the  lavish 
honors  paid  him,  in  the  rich  circumstance  of  Vien- 
nese life.  But  always  just  beneath  the  surface  were 
unforgetable  sorrows.  His  face  in  repose  was  always 
sad.  Once,  after  writing  to  Howells  of  his  successes, 
he  added: 

All  those  things  might  move  and  interest  one.  But 
how  desperately  more  I  have  been  moved  to-night  by 
the  thought  of  a  little  old  copy  in  the  nursery  of  At  the 
Back  of  the  North  Wind.  Oh,  what  happy  days  they  were 
when  that  book  was  read,  and  how  Susy  loved  it ! 


LIV 

RETURN   AFTER   EXILE 

NEWS  came  to  Vienna  of  the  death  of  Orion 
Clemens,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two.  Orion  had 
died  as  he  had  lived — a  gentle  dreamer,  always 
with  a  new  plan.  He  had  not  been  sick  at  all.  One 
morning  early  he  had  seated  himself  at  a  table, 
with  pencil  and  paper,  and  was  putting  down  the 
details  of  his  latest  project,  when  death  came — 
kindly,  in  the  moment  of  new  hope.  He  was  a  gen- 
erous, upright  man,  beloved  by  all  who  understood 
him. 

The  Clemenses  remained  two  winters  in  Vienna, 
spending  the  second  at  the  Hdtel  Krantz,  where 
their  rooms  were  larger  and  finer  than  at  the  M6tro- 
pole,  and  even  more  crowded  with  notabilities. 
Their  salon  acquired  the  name  of  the  "Second  Em- 
bassy," and  Mark  Twain  was,  in  fact,  the  most 
representative  American  in  the  Austrian  capital.  It 
became  the  fashion  to  consult  him  on  every  question 
of  public  interest,  his  comments,  whether  serious  or 
otherwise,  being  always  worth  printing.  When  Eu- 
ropean disarmament  was  proposed,  Editor  William 
T.  Stead,  of  the  Review  of  Reviews,  wrote  for  his 
opinion.  He  replied: 

288 


RETURN   AFTER   EXILE 

DEAR  MR.  STEAD, — The  Tsar  is  ready  to  disarm.  I  am 
ready  to  disarm.  Collect  the  others;  it  should  not  be 
much  of  a  task  now.  MARK  TWAIN. 

He  refused  offers  of  many  sorts.  He  declined  ten 
thousand  dollars  for  a  tobacco  indorsement,  though 
he  liked  the  tobacco  well  enough.  He  declined  ten 
thousand  dollars  a  year  for  five  years  to  lend  his 
name  as  editor  of  a  humorous  periodical.  He  de- 
clined another  ten  thousand  for  ten  lectures,  and 
another  offer  for  fifty  lectures  at  the  same  rate — that 
is,  one  thousand  dollars  per  night.  He  could  get 
along  without  these  sums,  he  said,  and  still  preserve 
some  remnants  of  his  self-respect. 

It  was  May,  1899,  when  Clemens  and  his  family 
left  Vienna.  They  spent  a  summer  in  Sweden  on 
account  of  the  health  of  Jean  Clemens,  and  located 
in  London  apartments — 30  Wellington  Court — for 
the  winter.  Then  followed  a  summer  at  beautiful 
Dollis  Hill,  an  old  house  where  Gladstone  had  often 
visited,  on  a  shady  hilltop  just  outside  of  London. 
The  city  had  not  quite  inclosed  the  place  then,  and 
there  were  spreading  oaks,  a  pond  with  lily-pads, 
and  wide  spaces  of  grassy  lawn.  The  place  to-day 
is  converted  into  a  public  garden  called  Gladstone 
Park.  Writing  to  Twichell  in  mid-summer,  Clemens 
said: 

I  am  the  only  person  who  is  ever  in  the  house  in  the 
daytime,  but  I  am  working,  and  deep  in  the  luxury  of  it. 
But  there  is  one  tremendous  defect.  Livy  is  all  so  en- 
chanted with  the  place  and  so  in  love  with  it  that  she 
doesn't  know  how  she  is  going  to  tear  herself  away  from  it. 
289 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

However,  there  was  one  still  greater  attraction 
than  Dollis  Hill,  and  that  was  America — home. 
Mark  Twain  at  sixty-five  and  a  free  man  once  more 
had  decided  to  return  to  his  native  land.  They 
closed  Dollis  Hill  at  the  end  of  September,  and 
October  6,  1900,  sailed  on  the  Minnehaha  for  New 
York,  bidding  good-by,  as  Mark  Twain  believed, 
and  hoped,  to  foreign  travel.  Nine  days  later,  to  a 
reporter  who  greeted  him  on  the  ship,  he  said: 

"If  I  ever  get  ashore  I  am  going  to  break  both  of 
my  legs  so  I  can't  get  away  again." 


LV 

A   PROPHET   AT   HOME 

NEW  YORK  tried  to  outdo  Vienna  and  London 
in  honoring  Mark  Twain.  Every  newspaper 
was  filled  with  the  story  of  his  great  fight  against 
debt,  and  his  triumph.  "He  had  behaved  like 
Walter  Scott,"  writes  Howells,  "as  millions  rejoiced 
to  know  who  had  not  known  how  Walter  Scott  be- 
haved till  they  knew  it  was  like  Clemens."  Clubs 
and  societies  vied  with  one  another  in  offering  him 
grand  entertainments.  Literary  and  lecture  pro- 
posals poured  in.  He  was  offered  at  the  rate  of  a 
dollar  a  word  for  his  writing — he  could  name  his  own 
terms  for  lectures. 

These  sensational  offers  did  not  tempt  him.  He 
was  sick  of  the  platform.  He  made  a  dinner  speech 
here  and  there — always  an  event — but  he  gave  no 
lectures  or  readings  for  profit.  His  literary  work  he 
confined  to  a  few  magazines,  and  presently  concluded 
an  arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers  for  what- 
ever he  might  write,  the  payment  to  be  twenty  (later 
thirty)  cents  per  word.  He  arranged  with  the  same 
firm  for  the  publication  of  all  his  books,  by  this 
time  collected  in  uniform  edition.  He  wished  his 
affairs  to  be  settled  as  nearly  as  might  be.  His 
291 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

desire  was  freedom  from  care.  Also  he  would  have 
liked  a  period  of  quiet  and  rest,  but  that  was  im- 
possible. He  realized  that  the  multitude  of  honors 
tendered  him  was  in  a  sense  a  vast  compliment 
which  he  could  not  entirely  refuse.  Howells  writes 
that  Mark  Twain's  countrymen  "kept  it  up  past 
all  precedent,"  and  in  return  Mark  Twain  tried  to 
do  his  part.  "His  friends  saw  that  he  was  wearing 
himself  out,"  adds  Howells,  and  certain  it  is  that 
he  grew  thin  and  pale  and  had  a  hacking  cough. 
Once  to  Richard  Watson  Gilder  he  wrote: 

In  bed  with  a  chest  cold  and  other  company. 
DEAR  GILDER, — I  can't.    If  I  were  a  well  man  I  could 

explain  with  this  pencil,  but  in  the  cir ces  I  will  leave 

it  all  to  your  imagination. 

Was  it  Grady  that  killed  himself  trying  to  do  all  the 
dining  and  speeching?  No,  old  man,  no,  no! 

Ever  yours,  MARK. 

In  the  various  dinner  speeches  and  other  utter- 
ances made  by  Mark  Twain  at  this  time,  his  hearers 
recognized  a  new  and  great  seriousness  of  purpose. 
It  was  not  really  new,  only,  perhaps,  more  empha- 
sized. He  still  made  them  laugh,  but  he  insisted  on 
making  them  think,  too.  He  preached  a  new  gospel 
of  patriotism — not  the  patriotism  that  means  a  bois- 
terous cheering  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  wherever 
unfurled,  but  the  patriotism  that  proposes  to  keep 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  clean  and  worth  shouting  for. 
In  one  place  he  said : 

We  teach  the  boys  to  atrophy  their  independence.    We 
teach  them  to  take  their  patriotism  at  second  hand;  to 
292 


HUSK  FBNN 


MARK   TWAIN    AS   HUCK   FINN 


A   PROPHET   AT   HOME 

shout  with  the  largest  crowd  without  examining  into  the 
right  or  wrong  of  the  matter — exactly  as  boys  under 
monarchies  are  taught,  and  have  always  been  taught. 

He  protested  against  the  blind  allegiance  of  mon- 
archies. He  was  seldom  "with  the  largest  crowd" 
himself.  Writing  much  of  our  foreign  affairs,  then 
in  a  good  deal  of  a  muddle,  he  assailed  so  fearlessly 
and  fiercely  measures  which  he  held  to  be  unjust 
that  he  was  caricatured  as  an  armed  knight  on  a 
charger  and  as  Huck  Finn  with  a  gun. 

But  he  was  not  always  warlike.  One  of  the- 
speeches  he  made  that  winter  was  with  Col.  Henry 
Watterson,  a  former  Confederate  soldier,  at  a  Lin- 
coln birthday  memorial  at  Carnegie  Hall.  "Think 
of  it!"  he  wrote  Twichell,  "two  old  rebels  function- 
ing there;  I  as  president  and  Watterson  as  orator 
of  the  day.  Things  have  changed  somewhat  in 
these  forty  years,  thank  God!" 

The  Clemens  household  did  not  go  back  to  Hart- 
ford. During  their  early  years  abroad  it  had  been 
Mrs.  Clemens's  dream  to  return  and  open  the 
beautiful  home,  with  everything  the  same  as  before. 
The  death  of  Susy  had  changed  all  this.  The 
mother  had  grown  more  and  more  to  feel  that  she 
could  not  bear  the  sorrow  of  Susy's  absence  in  the 
familiar  rooms.  After  a  trip  which  Clemens  himself 
made  to  Hartford,  he  wrote,  ''I  realize  that  if  we 
ever  enter  the  house  again  to  live,  our  hearts  will 
break." 

So  they  did  not  go  back.    Mrs.  Clemens  had  seen 
it  for  the  last  time  on  that  day  when  the  carriage 
waited  while  she  went  back  to  take  a  last  look  into 
20  293 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

the  vacant  rooms.  They  had  taken  a  house  at  14 
West  Tenth  Street  for  the  winter,  and  when  summer 
came  they  went  to  a  log  cabin  on  Saranac  Lake, 
which  they  called  "The  Lair."  Here  Mark  Twain 
wrote  A  Double-barreled  Detective  Story,  a  not  very 
successful  burlesque  of  Sherlock  Holmes.  But  most 
of  the  time  that  summer  he  loafed  and  rested,  as 
was  his  right.  Once  during  the  summer  he  went  on 
a  cruise  with  H.  H.  Rogers,  Speaker  "Tom"  Reed, 
and  others  on  Mr.  Rogers's  yacht. 


LVI 

HONORED   BY   MISSOURI 

THE  family  did  not  return  to  New  York.  They 
took  a  beautiful  house  at  Riverdale  on  the  Hud- 
son— the  old  Appleton  homestead.  Here  they  es- 
tablished themselves  and  settled  down  for  American 
residence.  They  would  have  bought  the  Appleton 
place,  but  the  price  was  beyond  their  reach. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1901  that  Mark  Twain 
settled  in  Riverdale.  In  June  of  the  following  year 
he  was  summoned  West  to  receive  the  degree  of 
LL.D.  from  the  university  of  his  native  state.  He 
made  the  journey  a  sort  of  last  general  visit  to  old 
associations  and  friends.  In  St.  Louis  he  saw 
Horace  Bixby,  fresh,  wiry,  and  capable  as  he  had 
been  forty-five  years  before.  Clemens  said: 

"I  have  become  an  old  man.  You  are  still 
thirty-five." 

They  went  over  to  the  rooms  of  the  pilots'  asso- 
ciation, where  the  river-men  gathered  in  force  to 
celebrate  his  return.  Then  he  took  train  for  Han- 
nibal. 

He  spent  several  days  in  Hannibal  and  saw  Laura 
Hawkins — Mrs.  Frazer,  and  a  widow  now — and  John 
Briggs,  an  old  man,  and  John  RoBards,  who  had 
295 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

worn  the  golden  curls  and  the  medal  for  good  con- 
duct. They  drove  him  to  the  old  house  on  Hill 
Street,  where  once  he  had  lived  and  set  type;  pho- 
tographers were  there  and  photographed  him  stand- 
ing at  the  front  door. 

"It  all  seems  so  small  to  me,"  he  said,  as  he  looked 
through  the  house.  "A  boy's  home  is  a  big  place  to 
him.  I  suppose  if  I  should  come  back  again  ten 
years  from  now  it  would  be  the  size  of  a  bird-house." 
He  did  not  see  "Huck" — Tom  Blankenship  had  not 
lived  in  Hannibal  for  many  years.  But  he  was 
driven  to  all  the  familiar  haunts — to  Lover's  Leap, 
the  cave,  and  the  rest;  and  Sunday  afternoon,  with 
John  Briggs,  he  walked  over  Holliday's  Hill — the 
"Cardiff  Hill"  of  Tom  Sawyer.  It  was  just  such  a 
day  as  the  one  when  they  had  damaged  a  cooper 
shop  and  so  nearly  finished  the  old  negro  driver.  A 
good  deal  more  than  fifty  years  had  passed  since 
then,  and  now  here  they  were  once  more — Tom 
Sawyer  and  Joe  Harper — two  old  men,  the  hills  still 
fresh  and  green,  the  river  rippling  in  the  sun.  Look- 
ing across  to  the  Illinois  shore  and  the  green  islands 
where  they  had  played,  and  to  Lover's  Leap  on  the 
south,  the  man  who  had  been  Sam  Clemens  said : 

"John,  that  is  one  of  the  loveliest  sights  I  ever 
saw.  Down  there  is  the  place  we  used  to  swim,  and 
yonder  is  where  a  man  was  drowned,  and  there's 
where  the  steamboat  sank.  Down  there  on  Lover's 
Leap  is  where  the  Millerites  put  on  their  robes 
one  night  to  go  to  heaven.  None  of  them  went 
that  night,  but  I  suppose  most  of  them  have  gone 
now." 

296 


MARK    TWAIN    AND   JOHN    BRIGGS,   IQO2 


HONORED    BY   MISSOURI 

John  Briggs  said,  "Sam,  do  you  remember  the 
day  we  stole  peaches  from  old  man  Price,  and  one  of 
his  bow-legged  niggers  came  after  us  with  dogs,  and 
how  we  made  up  our  minds  we'd  catch  that  nigger 
and  drown  him?" 

And  so  they  talked  on  of  this  thing  and  that,  and 
by  and  by  drove  along  the  river,  and  Sam  Clemens 
pointed  out  the  place  where  he  swam  it  and  was 
taken  with  a  cramp  on  the  return. 

"Once  near  the  shore  I  thought  I  would  let  down," 
he  said,  "but  was  afraid  to,  knowing  that  if  the 
water  was  deep  I  was  a  goner,  but  finally  my  knee 
struck  the  sand  and  I  crawled  out.  That  was  the 
closest  call  I  ever  had." 

They  drove  by  a  place  where  a  haunted  house  had 
stood.  They  drank  from  a  well  they  had  always 
known — from  the  bucket,  as  they  had  always  drunk 
— talking,  always  talking,  touching  with  lingering 
fondness  that  most  beautiful  and  safest  of  all  our 
possessions — the  past. 

"Sam,"  said  John,  when  they  parted,  "this  is 
probably  the  last  time  we  shall  meet  on  earth. 
God  bless  you.  Perhaps  somewhere  we  shall  renew 
our  friendship." 

"John,"  was  the  answer,  "this  day  has  been  worth 
a  thousand  dollars  to  me.  We  were  like  brothers 
once,  and  I  feel  that  we  are  the  same  now.  Good-by, 
John.  I'll  try  to  meet  you — somewhere." 

Clemens  left  next  day  for  Columbia,  where  the 

university  is  located.    At  each  station  a  crowd  had 

gathered  to  cheer  and  wave  as  the  train  pulled  in 

and  to  offer  him  flowers.     Sometimes  he  tried  to 

297 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

say  a  few  words,  but  his  voice  would  not  come.   This 
was  more  than  even  Tom  Sawyer  had  dreamed. 

Certainly  there  is  something  deeply  touching  in 
the  recognition  of  one's  native  State;  the  return  of 
the  boy  who  has  set  out  unknown  to  battle  with 
life  and  who  is  called  back  to  be  crowned  is  unlike 
any  other  home-coming — more  dramatic,  more  mov- 
ing. Next  day  at  the  university  Mark  Twain, 
summoned  before  the  crowded  assembly-hall  to  re- 
ceive his  degree,  stepped  out  to  the  center  of  the 
stage  and  paused.  He  seemed  in  doubt  as  to  whether 
he  should  make  a  speech  or  only  express  his  thanks 
for  the  honor  received.  Suddenly  and  without  sig- 
nal the  great  audience  rose  and  stood  in  silence  at 
his  feet.  He  bowed  but  he  could  not  speak.  Then 
the  vast  assembly  began  a  peculiar  chant,  spelling 
out  slowly  the  word  M-i-s-s-o-u-r-i,  with  a  pause  be- 
tween each  letter.  It  was  tremendously  impressive. 

Mark  Twain  was  not  left  in  doubt  as  to  what  was 
required  of  him  when  the  chant  ended.  The  audi- 
ence demanded  a  speech — a  speech,  and  he  made 
them  one — such  a  speech  as  no  one  there  would  forget 
to  his  dying  day. 

Back  in  St.  Louis,  he  attended  the  rechristening 
of  the  St.  Louis  harbor  boat ;  it  had  been  previously 
called  the  St.  Louis,  but  it  was  now  to  be  called  the 
Mark  Twain. 


LVII 

THE    CLOSE   OF   A   BEAUTIFUL   LIFE 

T  IFE  which  had  begun  very  cheerfully  at  River- 
•L'  dale  ended  sadly  enough.  In  August,  at  York 
Harbor,  Maine,  Mrs.  Clemens's  health  failed  and 
she  was  brought  home  an  invalid,  confined  almost 
entirely  to  her  room.  She  had  been  always  the  life, 
the  center,  the  mainspring  of  the  household.  Now 
she  must  not  even  be  consulted — hardly  visited. 
On  her  bad  days — and  they  were  many — Clemens, 
sad  and  anxious,  spent  most  of  his  time  lingering 
about  her  door,  waiting  for  news,  or  until  he  was 
permitted  to  see  her  for  a  brief  moment.  In  his 
memorandum-book  of  that  period  he  wrote: 

Our  dear  prisoner  is  where  she  is  through  overwork — 
day  and  night  devotion  to  the  children  and  me.  We  did 
not  know  how  to  value  it.  We  know  now. 

And  on  the  margin  of  a  letter  praising  him  for 
what  he  had  done  for  the  world's  enjoyment,  and 
for  his  triumph  over  debt,  he  wrote : 

Livy  never  gets  her  share  of  those  applauses,  but  it  is 
because  the  people  do  not  know.  Yet  she  is  entitled  to 
the  lion's  share. 

299 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

\ 

She  improved  during  the  winter,  but  very  slowly. 
Her  husband  wrote  in  his  diary: 

Feb.  2,  1903 — Thirty-third  wedding  anniversary.  I  was 
allowed  to  see  Livy  five  minutes  this  morning,  in  honor 
of  the  day. 

Mrs.  Clemens  had  always  remembered  affection- 
ately their  winter  in  Florence  of  ten  years  before, 
and  she  now  expressed  the  feeling  that  if  she  were 
in  Florence  again  she  would  be  better.  The  doctors 
approved,  and  it  was  decided  that  she  should  be 
taken  there  as  soon  as  she  was  strong  enough  to 
travel.  She  had  so  far  improved  by  June  that  they 
journeyed  to  Elmira,  where  in  the  quiet  rest  of 
Quarry  Farm  her  strength  returned  somewhat  and 
the  hope  of  her  recovery  was  strong. 

Mark  Twain  wrote  a  story  that  summer  in  El- 
mira, in  the  little  octagonal  study,  shut  in  now  by 
trees  and  overgrown  with  vines.  A  Dog's  Tale,  a 
pathetic  plea  against  vivisection,  was  the  last  story 
written  in  the  little  retreat  that  had  seen  the 
beginning  of  Tom  Sawyer  twenty-nine  years  before. 

There  was  a  feeling  that  the  stay  in  Europe  was 
this  time  to  be  permanent.  On  one  of  the  first  days 
of  October  Clemens  wrote  in  his  note-book: 

To-day  I  place  flowers  on  Susy's  grave — for  the  last 
time,  probably — and  read  the  words,  "Good  night,  dear 
heart,  good  night,  good  night." 

They  sailed  on  the  24th,  by  way  of  Naples  and 
Genoa,  and  were  presently  installed  in  the  Villa 
Reale  di  Quarto,  a  fine  old  Italian  palace,  in  an 
r  300 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  LIFE 

ancient  garden  looking  out  over  Florence  toward 
Vallombrosa  and  the  Chianti  hills.  It  was  a  beauti- 
ful spot,  though  its  aging  walls  and  cypresses  and 
matted  vines  gave  it  a  rather  mournful  look.  Mrs. 
Clemens's  health  improved  there  for  a  time,  in  spite 
of  dull,  rainy,  depressing  weather;  so  much  so  that 
in  May,  when  the  warmth  and  sun  came  back, 
Clemens  was  driving  about  the  country,  seeking  a 
villa  that  he  might  buy  for  a  home. 

On  one  of  these  days — it  was  a  Sunday  in  early 
June,  the  5th — when  he  had  been  out  with  Jean, 
and  had  found  a  villa  which  he  believed  would  fill 
all  their  requirements,  he  came  home  full  of  enthu- 
siasm and  hope,  eager  to  tell  the  patient  about  the 
discovery.  Certainly  she  seemed  better.  A  day  or 
two  before  she  had  been  wheeled  out  on  the  terrace 
to  enjoy  the  wonder  of  early  Italian  summer. 

He  found  her  bright  and  cheerful,  anxious  to  hear 
all  their  plans  for  the  new  home.  He  stayed  with 
her  alone  through  the  dinner  hour,  and  their  talk 
was  as  in  the  old  days.  Summoned  to  go  at  last,  he 
chided  himself  for  staying  so  long;  but  she  said 
there  was  no  harm  and  kissed  him,  saying,  "You 
will  come  back?"  and  he  answered,  "Yes,  to  say 
good  night,"  meaning  at  half -past  nine,  as  was  the 
permitted  custom.  He  stood  a  moment  at  the  door, 
throwing  kisses  to  her,  and  she  returned  them,  her 
face  bright  with  smiles. 

He  was  so  full  of  hope — they  were  going  to  be 
happy  again.  Long  ago  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
singing  jubilee  songs  to  the  children.  He  went  up- 
stairs now  to  the  piano  and  played  the  chorus  and 
301 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

sang  "Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot,"  and  "My  Lord 
He  Calls  Me."  He  stopped  then,  but  Jean,  who 
had  come  in,  asked  him  to  go  on.  Mrs.  Clemens, 
from  her  room,  heard  the  music  and  said  to  Katy 
Leary: 

"He  is  singing  a  good-night  carol  to  me." 

The  music  ceased  presently.  A  moment  later  she 
asked  to  be  lifted  up.  Almost  in  that  instant  life 
slipped  away  without  a  sound. 

Clemens,  just  then  coming  to  say  good-night,  saw 
a  little  group  gathered  about  her  bed,  and  heard 
Clara  ask: 

"Katy,  is  it  true?    Oh,  Katy,  is  it  true?" 

In  his  note-book  that  night  he  wrote: 

At  a  quarter-past  nine  this  evening  she  that  was  the 
life  of  my  life  passed  to  the  relief  and  the  peace  of  death, 
after  twenty-two  months  of  unjust  and  unearned  suffer- 
ing. I  first  saw  her  thirty-seven  years  ago,  and  now  I 
have  looked  upon  her  face  for  the  last  time.  ...  I  was 
full  of  remorse  for  things  done  and  said  in  these  thirty- 
four  years  of  married  life  that  have  hurt  Livy's  heart. 

And  to  Howells  a  few  days  later: 

To-day,  treasured  in  her  worn,  old  testament,  I  found 
a  dear  and  gentle  letter  from  you  dated  Far  Rockaway, 
September  12,  1896,  about  our  poor  Susy's  death.  I  am 
tired  and  old;  I  wish  I  were  with  Livy. 

They  brought  her  to  America;  and  from  the 
house,  and  the  rooms,  where  she  had  been  made  a 
bride  bore  her  to  a  grave  beside  Susy  and  little 
Langdon. 

302 


LVIII 

MARK  TWAIN    AT   SEVENTY 

IN  a  small  cottage  belonging  to  Richard  Watson 
Gilder,  at  Tyringham,  Massachusetts,  Samuel 
Clemens  and  his  daughters  tried  to  plan  for  the  fut- 
ure. Mrs.  Clemens  had  always  been  the  directing 
force — they  were  lost  without  her.  They  finally  took 
a  house  in  New  York  City,  No.  2 1  Fifth  Avenue,  at  the 
corner  of  Ninth  Street,  installed  the  familiar  furnish- 
ings, and  tried  once  more  to  establish  a  home.  The 
house  was  handsome  within  and  without — a  proper 
residence  for  a  venerable  author  and  sage — a  suitable 
setting  for  Mark  Twain.  But  it  was  lonely  for  him. 
It  lacked  soul — comfort  that  would  reach  the  heart. 
He  added  presently  a  great  ^Eolian  orchestrelle,  with 
a  variety  of  music  for  his  different  moods.  Some- 
times he  played  it  himself,  though  oftener  his  sec- 
retary played  to  him.  He  went  out  little  that  win- 
ter— seeing  only  a  few  old  and  intimate  friends. 
His  writing,  such  as  it  was,  was  of  a  serious  nature, 
protests  against  oppression  and  injustice  in  a  vari- 
ety of  forms.  Once  he  wrote  a  "War  Prayer," 
supposed  to  have  been  made  by  a  mysterious, 
white-robed  stranger  who  enters  a  church  during 
those  ceremonies  that  precede  the  marching  of  the 
303 


THE    BOYS*    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

nation's  armies  to  battle.  The  minister  had  prayed 
for  victory,  a  prayer  which  the  stranger  interprets 
as  a  petition  that  the  enemy's  country  be  laid  waste, 
its  soldiers  be  torn  by  shells,  its  people  turned  out 
roofless,  to  wander  through  their  desolated  land  in 
rags  and  hunger.  It  was  a  scathing  arraignment  of 
war,  a  prophecy,  indeed,  which  to-day  has  been 
literally  fulfilled.  He  did  not  print  it,  because  then 
it  would  have  been  regarded  as  sacrilege. 

When  summer  came  again,  in  a  beautiful  house 
at  Dublin,  New  Hampshire,  on  the  Monadnock 
slope,  he  seemed  to  get  back  into  the  old  swing  of 
work,  and  wrote  that  pathetic  story,  A  Horse's  Tale. 
Also  Eve's  Diary,  which,  under  its  humor,  is  filled 
with  tenderness,  and  he  began  a  wildly  fantastic 
tale  entitled  Three  Thousand  Years  Among  the  Mi- 
crobes, a  satire  in  which  Gulliver  is  outdone.  He 
never  finished  it.  He  never  could  finish  it,  for  it  ran 
off  into  amazing  by-paths  that  led  nowhere,  and  the 
tale  was  lost.  Yet  he  always  meant  to  get  at  it 
again  some  day  and  make  order  out  of  chaos. 

Old  friends  were  dying,  and  Mark  Twain  grew 
more  and  more  lonely.  "My  section  of  the  pro- 
cession has  but  a  little  way  to  go,"  he  wrote  when  the 
great  English  actor  Henry  Irving  died.  Charles 
Henry  Webb,  his  first  publisher,  John  Hay,  Bret 
Harte,  Thomas  B.  Reed,  and,  indeed,  most  of  his 
earlier  associates  were  gone.  When  an  invitation 
came  from  San  Francisco  to  attend  a  California 
reunion  he  replied  that  his  wandering  days  were 
over  and  that  it  was  his  purpose  to  sit  by  the  fire 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  And  in  another  letter: 
304 


MARK   TWAIN   AT    SEVENTY 

.5000 


MARK  TWAIN'S   SUGGESTED  TITLE-PAGE   FOR  HIS   MICROBE   BOOK 

I  have  done  more  for  San  Francisco  than  any  other  of 
its  old  residents.  Since  I  left  there,  it  has  increased  in 
population  fully  300,000.  I  could  have  done  more  —  I 
could  have  gone  earlier  —  it  was  suggested. 

A  choice  example,  by  the  way,  of  Mark  Twain's 
best  humor,  with  its  perfectly  timed  pause,  and  the 
305 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

afterthought.  Most  humorists  would  have  been  con- 
tent to  end  with  the  statement,  "I  could  have  gone 
earlier."  Only  Mark  Twain  could  have  added  that 
final  exquisite  touch — "it  was  suggested." 

Mark  Twain  was  nearing  seventy.  With  the 
3oth  of  November  (1905)  he  would  complete  the 
scriptural  limitation,  and  the  president  of  his  publish- 
ing-house, Col.  George  Harvey,  of  Harper's,  proposed 
a  great  dinner  for  him  in  celebration  of  his  grand 
maturity.  Clemens  would  have  preferred  a  small 
assembly  in  some  snug  place,  with  only  his  oldest 
and  closest  friends.  Colonel  Harvey  had  a  different 
view.  He  had  given  a  small,  choice  dinner  to  Mark 
Twain  on  his  sixty-seventh  birthday;  now  it  must 
be  something  really  worth  while — something  to  out- 
rank any  former  literary  gathering.  In  order  not  to 
conflict  with  Thanksgiving  holidays,  the  5th  of 
December  was  selected  as  the  date.  On  that  even- 
ing, two  hundred  American  and  English  men  and 
women  of  letters  assembled  in  Delmonico's  great 
banquet-hall  to  do  honor  to  their  chief.  What  an 
occasion  it  was!  The  tables  of  gay  diners  and 
among  them  Mark  Twain,  his  snow-white  hair  a 
gleaming  beacon  for  every  eye.  Then,  by  and 
by,  presented  by  William  Dean  Howells,  he  rose 
to  speak.  Instantly  the  brilliant  throng  was  on 
its  feet,  a  shouting  billow  of  life,  the  white  hand- 
kerchiefs flying  foam-like  on  its  crest.  It  was  a 
supreme  moment!  The  greatest  one  of  them  all 
hailed  by  their  applause  as  he  scaled  the  mountain- 
top. 

Never  did  Mark  Twain  deliver  a  more  perfect 
306 


MARK   TWAIN   AT    SEVENTY 

address  than  he  gave  that  night.  He  began  with  the 
beginning,  the  meagerness  of  that  little  hamlet  that 
had  seen  his  birth,  and  sketched  it  all  so  quaintly 
and  delightfully  that  his  hearers  laughed  and  shouted, 
though  there  was  tenderness  under  it,  and  often  the 
tears  were  just  beneath  the  surface.  He  told  of  his 
habits  of  life,  how  he  had  reached  seventy  by  follow- 
ing a  plan  of  living  that  would  probably  kill  any- 
body else;  how,  in  fact,  he  believed  he  had  no  val- 
uable habits  at  all.  Then,  at  last,  came  that 
unforgetable  close : 

Threescore  years  and  ten! 

It  is  the  scriptural  statute  of  limitations.  After  that 
you  owe  no  active  duties;  for  you  the  strenuous  life  is 
over.  You  are  a  time-expired  man,  to  use  Kipling's  mili- 
tary phrase:  you  have  served  your  term,  well  or  less  well, 
and  you  are  mustered  out.  You  are  become  an  honorary 
member  of  the  republic,  you  are  emancipated,  compulsions 
are  not  for  you,  nor  any  bugle-call  but  "lights  out."  You 
pay  the  time-worn  duty  bills  if  you  choose,  or  decline, 
if  you  prefer — and  without  prejudice — for  they  are  not 
legally  collectable. 

The  previous-engagement  plea,  which  in  forty  years  has 
cost  you  so  many  twinges,  you  can  lay  aside  forever;  on 
this  side  of  the  grave  you  will  never  need  it  again.  If  you 
shrink  at  thought  of  night,  and  winter,  and  the  late  home- 
comings from  the  banquet  and  the  lights  and  laughter, 
through  the  deserted  streets — a  desolation  which  would 
not  remind  you  now,  as  for  a  generation  it  did,  that  your 
friends  are  sleeping  and  you  must  creep  in  a-tiptoe  and 
not  disturb  them,  but  would  only  remind  you  that  you 
need  not  tiptoe,  you  can  never  disturb  them  more — if  you 
shrink  at  the  thought  of  these  things  you  need  only 

307  I 

/ 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

reply,  "Your  invitation  honors  me  and  pleases  me  be- 
cause you  still  keep  me  in  your  remembrance,  but  I  am 
seventy;  seventy,  and  would  nestle  in  the  chimney-corner, 
and  smoke  my  pipe,  and  read  my  book,  and  take  my  rest, 
wishing  you  well  in  all  affection,  and  that  when  you,  in 
your  turn,  shall  arrive  at  Pier  70  you  may  step  aboard 
your  waiting  ship  with  a  reconciled  spirit,  and  lay 
your  course  toward  the  sinking  sun  with  a  contented 
heart. 

The  tears  that  had  been  lying  in  wait  were  no 
longer  kept  back.  If  there  were  any  present  who 
did  not  let  them  flow  without  shame,  who  did  not 
shout  their  applause  from  throats  choked  with  sobs 
they  failed  to  mention  the  fact  later. 

Many  of  his  old  friends,  one  after  another,  rose 
to  tell  their  love  for  him — Cable,  Carnegie,  Gilder, 
and  the  rest.  Mr.  Rogers  did  not  speak,  nor  the 
Reverend  Twichell,  but  they  sat  at  his  special  table. 
Aldrich  could  not  be  there,  but  wrote  a  letter.  A 
group  of  English  authors,  including  Alfred  Austin, 
Barrie,  Chesterton,  Dobson,  Doyle,  Hardy,  Kipling, 
Lang,  and  others,  joined  in  a  cable.  Helen  Keller 
wrote: 

And  you  are  seventy  years  old?  Or  is  the  report 
exaggerated,  like  that  of  your  death?  I  remember,  when 
I  saw  you  last,  at  the  house  of  dear  Mr.  Hutton,  in 
Princeton,  you  said: 

"If  a  man  is  a  pessimist  before  he  is  forty-eight,  he 
knows  too  much.  If  he  is  an  optimist  after  he  is  forty- 
eight,  he  knows  too  little." 

Now  we  know  you  are  an  optimist,  and  nobody  would 

dare  to  accuse  one  on  the  "seven-terraced  summit"  of 

308 


MARK  TWAIN   AT   SEVENTY 

knowing  little.    So  probably  you  are  not  seventy,  after 
all,  but  only  forty-seven!  $ 

Helen  Keller  was  right.    Mark  Twain  was  never 
a  pessimist  in  his  heart. 

21 


LIX 

MARK   TWAIN   ARRANGES    FOR   HIS    BIOGRAPHY 

IT  was  at  the  beginning  of  1906 — a  little  more 
than  a  month  after  the  seventieth-birthday  dinner 
— that  the  writer  of  these  chapters  became  person- 
ally associated  with  Mark  Twain.  I  had  met  him 
before,  and  from  time  to  time  he  had  returned  a 
kindly  word  about  some  book  I  had  written  and 
inconsiderately  sent  him,  for  he  had  been  my  lit- 
erary hero  from  childhood.  Once,  indeed,  he  had 
allowed  me  to  use  some  of  his  letters  in  a  biography 
I  was  writing  of  Thomas  Nast;  he  had  been  always 
an  admirer  of  the  great  cartoonist,  and  the  permis- 
sion was  kindness  itself.  Before  the  seating  at  the 
birthday  dinner  I  happened  to  find  myself  for  a 
moment  alone  with  Mark  Twain  and  remembered 
to  thank  him  in  person  for  the  use  of  the  letters;  a 
day  or  two  later  I  sent  him  a  copy  of  the  book. 
I  did  not  expect  to  hear  from  it  again. 

It  was  a  little  while  after  this  that  I  was  asked  to 
join  in  a  small  private  dinner  to  be  given  to  Mark 
Twain  at  the  Players,  in  celebration  of  his  being 
made  an  honorary  member  of  that  club — there  being 
at  the  time  only  one  other  member  of  this  class,  Sir 
Henry  Irving.  I  was  in  the  Players  a  day  or  two 
310 


ARRANGES    FOR   HIS    BIOGRAPHY 

before  the  event,  and  David  Munro,  of  The  North 
American  Review,  a  man  whose  gentle  and  kindly 
nature  made  him  "David"  to  all  who  knew  him, 
greeted  me  joyfully,  his  face  full  of  something  he 
knew  I  would  wish  to  hear. 

He  had  been  chosen,  he  said,  to  propose  the 
Players'  dinner  to  Mark  Twain,  and  had  found  him 
propped  up  in  bed,  and  beside  him  a  copy  of  the 
Nast  book.  I  suspect  now  that  David's  generous 
heart  prompted  Mark  Twain  to  speak  of  the  book, 
and  that  his  comment  had  lost  nothing  in  David's 
eager  retelling.  But  I  was  too  proud  and  happy  to 
question  any  feature  of  the  precious  compliment,  and 
Munro — always  most  happy  in  making  others  happy 
— found  opportunity  to  repeat  it,  and  even  to  im- 
prove upon  it — usually  in  the  presence  of  others — 
several  times  during  the  evening. 

The  Players'  dinner  to  Mark  Twain  was  given 
on  the  evening  of  January  3,  1906,  and  the  picture 
of  it  still  remains  clear  to  me.  The  guests,  assembled 
around  a  single  table  in  the  private  dining-room,  did 
not  exceed  twenty-five  in  number.  Brander  Mat- 
thews presided,  and  the  knightly  Frank  Millet,  who 
would  one  day  go  down  on  the  Titanic,  was  there, 
and  Gilder  and  Munro  and  David  Bispham  and 
Robert  Reid,  and  others  of  their  kind.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  my  seat  was  nearly  facing  the  guest  of 
the  evening,  who  by  a  custom  of  the  Players  is  placed 
at  the  side  and  not  at  the  distant  end  of  the  long 
table.  Regarding  him  at  leisure,  I  saw  that  he 
seemed  to  be  in  full  health.  He  had  an  alert,  rested 
look;  his  complexion  had  the  tints  of  a  miniature 
3" 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

painting.  Lit  by  the  soft  glow  of  the  shaded  candles, 
outlined  against  the  richness  of  the  shadowed  walls, 
he  made  a  figure  of  striking  beauty.  I  could  not 
take  my  eyes  from  it,  for  it  stirred  in  me  the  farthest 
memories.  I  saw  the  interior  of  a  farm-house  sitting- 
room  in  the  Middle  West  where  I  had  first  heard  the 
name  of  Mark  Twain,  and  where  night  after  night 
a  group  had  gathered  around  the  evening  lamp  to 
hear  read  aloud  the  story  of  the  Innocents  on  their 
Holy  Land  pilgrimage,  which  to  a  boy  of  eight  had 
seemed  only  a  wonderful  poem  and  fairy-tale.  To 
Charles  Harvey  Genung,  who  sat  next  to  me,  I 
whispered  something  of  this,  and  how  during  the 
thirty-six  years  since  then  no  one  had  meant  to  me 
quite  what  Mark  Twain  had  meant — in  literature 
and,  indeed,  in  life.  Now  here  he  was  just  across 
the  table.  It  was  a  fairy-tale  come  true. 
Genung  said:  "You  should  write  his  life." 
It  seemed  to  me  no  more  than  a  pleasant  remark, 
but  he  came  back  to  it  again  and  again,  trying  to 
encourage  me  with  the  word  that  Munro  had 
brought  back  concerning  the  biography  of  Nast. 
However,  nothing  of  what  he  said  had  kindled  any 
spark  of  hope.  I  put  him  off  by  saying  that  cer- 
tainly some  one  of  longer  and  closer  friendship  and 
larger  experience  had  been  selected  for  the  work. 
Then  the  speaking  began,  and  the  matter  went  out 
of  my  mind.  Later  in  the  evening,  when  we  had  left 
our  seats  and  were  drifting  about  the  table,  I  found 
a  chance  to  say  a  word  to  our  guest  concerning  his 
Joan  of  Arc,  which  I  had  recently  re-read.  To  my 
happiness,  he  told  me  that  long-ago  incident — the 
312 


ARRANGES    FOR   HIS    BIOGRAPHY 

stray  leaf  from  Joan's  life,  blown  to  him  by  the 
wind — which  had  led  to  his  interest  in  all  literature. 
Then  presently  I  was  with  Genung  again  and  he 
was  still  insisting  that  I  write  the  life  of  Mark 
Twain.  It  may  have  been  his  faithful  urging,  it 
may  have  been  the  quick  sympathy  kindled  by  the 
name  of  Joan  of  Arc;  whatever  it  was,  in  the  instant 
of  bidding  good-by  to  our  guest  I  was  prompted  to 
add: 

"May  I  call  to  see  you,  Mr.  Clemens,  some  day?" 
And  something — to  this  day  I  do  not  know  what — 
prompted  him  to  answer: 

"Yes,  come  soon." 

Two  days  later,  by  appointment  with  his  secre- 
tary, I  arrived  at  21  Fifth  Avenue,  and  waited  in 
the  library  to  be  summoned  to  his  room.  A  few 
moments  later  I  was  ascending  the  long  stairs,  won- 
dering why  I  had  come  on  so  useless  an  errand, 
trying  to  think  up  an  excuse  for  having  come  at  all. 

He  was  propped  up  in  bed — a  regal  bed,  from  a 
dismantled  Italian  palace — delving  through  a  copy 
of  Huckleberry  Finn,  in  search  of  a  paragraph  con- 
cerning which  some  unknown  correspondent  had  in- 
quired. He  pushed  the  cigars  toward  me,  com- 
menting amusingly  on  this  correspondent  and  on 
letter-writing  in  general.  By  and  by,  when  there 
came  a  lull,  I  told  him  what  so  many  thousands  had 
told  him  before — what  his  work  had  meant  to  me, 
so  long  ago,  and  recalled  my  childish  impressions  of 
that  large  black-and-gilt  book  with  its  wonderful 
pictures  and  adventures — The  Innocents  Abroad. 
Very  likely  he  was  willing  enough  to  let  me  change 
313 


THE    BOYS*    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

the  subject  presently  and  thank  him  for  the  kindly 
word  which  David  Munro  had  brought.  I  do  not 
remember  what  was  his  comment,  but  I  suddenly 
found  myself  saying  that  out  of  his  encouragement 
had  grown  a  hope  (though  certainly  it  was  less), 
that  I  might  some  day  undertake  a  book  about 
himself.  I  expected  my  errand  to  end  at  this  point, 
and  his  silence  seemed  long  and  ominous. 

He  said  at  last  that  from  time  to  time  he  had 
himself  written  chapters  of  his  life,  but  that  he  had 
always  tired  of  the  work  and  put  it  aside.  He  added 
that  he  hoped  his  daughters  would  one  day  collect 
his  letters,  but  that  a  biography — a  detailed  story 
of  a  man's  life  and  effort — was  another  matter.  I 
think  he  added  one  or  two  other  remarks,  then  all 
at  once,  turning  upon  me  those  piercing  agate-blue 
eyes,  he  said: 

"When  would  you  like  to  begin?" 

There  was  a  dresser,  with  a  large  mirror,  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  I  happened  to  catch  my  reflection 
in  it,  and  I  vividly  recollect  saying  to  it,  mentally: 
"This  is  not  true;  it  is  only  one  of  many  similar 
dreams."  But  even  in  a  dream  one  must  asnwer, 
and  I  said: 

"Whenever  you  like.     I  can  begin  now." 

He  was  always  eager  in  any  new  undertaking. 

"Very  good,"  he  said,  "the  sooner,  then,  the 
better.  Let's  begin  while  we  are  in  the  humor. 
The  longer  you  postpone  a  thing  of  this  kind,  the 
less  likely  you  are  ever  to  get  at  it." 

This  was  on  Saturday;  I  asked  if  Tuesday,  Jan- 
uary 9,  would  be  too  soon  to  start.  He  agreed  that 


ARRANGES    FOR   HIS    BIOGRAPHY 

Tuesday  would  do,  and  inquired  as  to  my  plan  of 
work.  I  suggested  bringing  a  stenographer  to  make 
notes  of  his  life-story  as  he  could  recall  it,  this 
record  to  be  supplemented  by  other  material — let- 
ters, journals,  and  what  not.  He  said : 

"I  think  I  should  enjoy  dictating  to  a  stenographer 
with  some  one  to  prompt  me  and  act  as  audience. 
The  room  adjoining  this  was  fitted  up  for  my  study. 
My  manuscript  and  notes  and  private  books  and 
many  of  my  letters  are  there,  and  there  are  a  trunkful 
or  two  of  such  things  in  the  attic.  I  seldom  use  the 
room  myself.  I  do  my  writing  and  reading  in  bed. 
I  will  turn  that  room  over  to  you  for  this  work. 
Whatever  you  need  will  be  brought  to  you.  We 
can  have  the  dictations  here  in  the  morning,  and 
you  can  put  in  the  rest  of  the  day  to  suit  yourself. 
You  can  have  a  key  and  come  and  go  as  you  please." 

That  was  always  his  way.  He  did  nothing  by 
halves.  He  got  up  and  showed  me  the  warm  luxury 
of  the  study,  with  its  mass  of  material — disordered, 
but  priceless. 

I  have  no  distinct  recollections  of  how  I  came 
away,  but  presently,  back  at  the  Players,  I  was  con- 
fiding the  matter  to  Charles  Harvey  Genung,  who 
said  he  was  not  surprised;  but  I  think  he  was. 


LX 

WORKING    WITH   MARK  TWAIN 

IT  was  true,  after  all;  and  on  Tuesday  morning, 
January  9,  1906,  I  was  on  hand  with  a  capable 
stenographer,  ready  to  begin.  Clemens,  meantime, 
had  developed  a  new  idea:  he  would  like  to  add,  he 
said,  the  new  dictations  to  his  former  beginnings, 
completing  an  autobiography  which  was  to  be  laid 
away  and  remain  unpublished  for  a  hundred  years. 
He  would  pay  the  stenographer  himself,  and  own 
the  notes,  allowing  me,  of  course,  free  use  of  them  as 
material  for  my  book.  He  did  not  believe  that  he 
could  follow  the  story  of  his  life  in  its  order  of  dates, 
but  would  find  it  necessary  to  wander  around,  pick- 
ing up  the  thread  as  memory  or  fancy  prompted. 
I  could  suggest  subjects  and  ask  questions. 
I  assented  to  everything,  and  we  set  to  work 
immediately. 

As  on  my  former  visit,  he  was  in  bed  when  we 
arrived,  though  clad  now  in  a  rich  Persian  dressing- 
gown,  and  propped  against  great,  snowy  pillows.  A 
small  table  beside  him  held  his  pipes,  cigars,  pa- 
pers, also  a  reading-lamp,  the  soft  light  of  which 
brought  out  his  brilliant  coloring  and  the  gleam  of 
his  snowy  hair.  There  was  daylight,  too,  but  it  was 


WORKING   WITH   MARK   TWAIN 

dull  winter  daylight,  from  the  north,  while  the  walls 
of  the  room  were  a  deep,  unreflecting  red. 

He  began  that  morning  with  some  memories  of 
the  Comstock  mine;  then  he  dropped  back  to  his 
childhood,  closing  at  last  with  some  comment  on 
matters  quite  recent.  How  delightful  it  was — his 
quaint,  unhurried  fashion  of  speech,  the  uncon- 
scious habits  of  his  delicate  hands,  the  play  of  his 
features  as  his  fancies  and  phrases  passed  through 
his  mind  and  were  accepted  or  put  aside.  We  were 
watching  one  of  the  great  literary  creators  of  his 
time  in  the  very  process  of  his  architecture.  Timie 
did  not  count.  When  he  finished,  at  last,  we  w«re 
all  amazed  to  find  that  more  than  two  hours  had 
slipped  away. 

"And  how  much  I  have  enjoyed  it,"  he  said.  "It 
is  the  ideal  plan  for  this  kind  of  work.  Narrative 
writing  is  always  disappointing,  The  moment  you 
pick  up  a  pen  you  begin  to  lose  the  spontaneity  of 
the  personal  relation,  which  contains  the  very  es- 
sence of  interest.  With  short-hand  dictation  one 
can  talk  as  if  he  were  at  his  own  dinner-table — 
always  an  inspiring  place.  I  expect  to  dictate  all 
the  rest  of  my  life,  if  you  good  people  are  willing  to 
come  and  listen  to  it." 

The  dictations  thus  begun  continued  steadily  from 
week  to  week,  with  increasing  charm.  We  never 
knew  what  he  was  going  to  talk  about,  and  it  was 
seldom  that  he  knew  until  the  moment  of  beginning. 
But  it  was  always  fascinating,  and  I  felt  myself  the 
most  fortunate  biographer  in  the  world,  as  indeed 
I  was. 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

It  was  not  all  smooth  sailing,  however.  In  the 
course  of  time  I  began  to  realize  that  these  marvel- 
ous dictated  chapters  were  not  altogether  history, 
but  were  often  partly,  or  even  entirely,  imaginary. 
The  creator  of  Tom  Sawyer  and  Huck  Finn  had 
been  embroidering  old  incidents  or  inventing  new 
ones  too  long  to  stick  to  history  now,  to  be  able 
to  separate  the  romance  in  his  mind  from  the  reality 
of  the  past.  Also,  his  memory  of  personal  events 
had  become  inaccurate.  He  realized  this,  and  once 
said,  in  his  whimsical,  gentle  way : 

"When  I  was  younger  I  could  remember  anything, 
whether  it  happened  or  not;  but  I  am  getting  old, 
and  soon  I  shall  remember  only  the  latter." 

Yet  it  was  his  constant  purpose  to  stick  to  fact, 
and  especially  did  he  make  no  effort  to  put  himself 
in  a  good  light.  Indeed,  if  you  wanted  to  know  the 
worst  of  Mark  Twain  you  had  only  to  ask  him  for  it. 
He  would  give  it  to  the  last  syllable,  and  he  would 
improve  upon  it  and  pile  up  his  sins,  and  sometimes 
the  sins  of  others,  without  stint.  Certainly  the  dic- 
tations were  precious,  for  they  revealed  character  as 
nothing  else  could;  but  as  material  for  history  they 
often  failed  to  stand  the  test  of  the  documents  in 
the  next  room — the  letters,  note-books,  agreements, 
and  the  like — from  which  I  was  gradually  rebuilding 
the  structure  of  the  years. 

In  the  talks  that  we  usually  had  when  the  dic- 
tations were  ended  and  the  stenographer  had  gone 
I  got  much  that  was  of  great  value.  It  was  then 
that  I  usually  made  those  inquiries  which  we  had 
planned  in  the  beginning,  and  his  answers,  coming 
318 


WORKING   WITH   MARK   TWAIN 

quickly  and  without  reflection,  gave  imagination  less 
play.  Sometimes  he  would  touch  some  point  of 
special  interest  and  walk  up  and  down,  philosophiz- 
ing, or  commenting  upon  things  in  general,  in  a  man- 
ner not  always  complimentary  to  humanity  and  its 
progress. 

I  seldom  asked  him  a  question  during  the  dicta- 
tion— or  interrupted  in  any  way,  though  he  had 
asked  me  to  stop  him  when  I  found  him  repeating  or 
contradicting  himself,  or  misstating  some  fact  known 
to  me.  At  first  I  lacked  the  courage  to  point  out  a 
mistake  at  the  moment,  and  cautiously  mentioned 
the  matter  when  he  had  finished.  Then  he  would  be 
likely  to  say : 

"Why  didn't  you  stop  me?  Why  did  you  let  me 
go  on  making  a  donkey  of  myself  when  you  could 
have  saved  me?" 

So  then  I  used  to  take  the  risk  of  getting  struck 
by  lightning,  and  nearly  always  stopped  him  in 
time.  But  if  it  happened  that  I  upset  his  thought, 
the  thunderbolt  was  apt  to  fly.  He  would  say: 

' '  Now  you've  knocked  everything  out  of  my  head. ' ' 

Then,  of  course,  I  was  sorry  and  apologized,  and 
in  a  moment  the  sky  was  clear  again.  There  was 
generally  a  humorous  complexion  to  the  dictations, 
whatever  the  subject.  Humor  was  his  natural 
breath  of  life,  and  rarely  absent. 

Perhaps  I  should  have  said  sooner  that  he  smoked 
continuously  during  the  dictations.  His  cigars  were 
of  that  delicious  fragrance  which  belongs  to  domestic 
tobacco.  They  were  strong  and  inexpensive,  and 
it  was  only  his  early  training  that  made  him  prefer 
319 


THE    BOYS1    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

them.  Admiring  friends  used  to  send  him  costly, 
imported  cigars,  but  he  rarely  touched  them,  and 
they  were  smoked  by  visitors.  He  often  smoked  a 
pipe,  and  preferred  it  to  be  old  and  violent.  Once 
when  he  had  bought  a  new,  expensive  briar-root,  he 
handed  it  to  me,  saying: 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  smoke  that  a  year  or  two, 
and  when  it  gets  so  you  can't  stand  it,  maybe  it 
will  suit  me." 


LXI 

DICTATIONS   AT  DUBLIN,  N.  H. 

'POLLOWING  his  birthday  dinner,  Mark  Twain 
l  had  become  once  more  the  "Belle  of  New  York," 
and  in  a  larger  way  than  ever  before.  An  editorial 
in  the  Evening  Mail  referred  to  him  as  a  kind  of 
joint  Aristides,  Solon,  and  Themistocles  of  the 
American  metropolis,  and  added: 

Things  have  reached  a  point  where,  if  Mark  Twain  is 
not  at  a  public  meeting  or  banquet,  he  is  expected  to 
console  it  with  one  of  his  inimitable  letters  of  advice  and 
encouragement. 

He  loved  the  excitement  of  it,  and  it  no  longer 
seemed  to  wear  upon  him.  Scarcely  an  evening 
passed  that  he  did  not  go  out  to  some  dinner  or 
gathering  where  he  had  promised  to  speak.  In 
April,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Robert  Fulton  Society, 
he  delivered  his  farewell  lecture — the  last  lecture, 
he  said,  where  any  one  would  have  to  pay  to  hear 
him.  It  was  at  Carnegie  Hall,  and  the  great  place 
was  jammed.  As  he  stood  before  that  vast,  shout- 
ing audience,  I  wondered  if  he  was  remembering 
that  night,  forty  years  before  in  San  Francisco, 
when  his  lecture  career  had  begun.  We  hoped  he 
might  speak  of  it,  but  he  did  not  do  so. 
321 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

In  May  the  dictations  were  transferred  to  Dublin, 
New  Hampshire,  to  the  long  veranda  of  the  Upton 
House,  on  the  Monadnock  slope.  He  wished  to  con- 
tinue our  work,  he  said;  so  the  stenographer  and 


MARK  TWAIN  AND  ANDREW  CARNEGIE  AT  A  SIMPLIFIED  SPELLING 
DINNER  (BY  CESARE) 

myself  were  presently  located  in  the  village,  and 
drove  out  each  morning,  to  sit  facing  one  of  the 
rarest  views  in  all  New  England,  while  he  talked  of 
everything  and  anything  that  memory  or  fancy 
322 


DICTATIONS    AT    DUBLIN,  N.  H. 

suggested.  We  had  begun  in  his  bedroom,  but  the 
glorious  outside  was  too  compelling. 

The  long  veranda  was  ideal.  He  was  generally 
ready  when  we  arrived,  a  luminous  figure  in  white 
flannels,  pacing  up  and  down  before  a  background 
of  sky  and  forest,  blue  lake,  and  distant  hills.  When 
it  stormed  we  would  go  inside  to  a  bright  fire.  The 
dictation  ended,  he  would  ask  his  secretary  to  play 
the  orchestrelle,  which  at  great  expense  had  been 
freighted  up  from  New  York.  In  that  high  situa- 
tion, the  fire  and  the  music  and  the  stormbeat  seemed 
to  lift  us  very  far  indeed  from  reality.  Certain  sym- 
phonies by  Beethoven,  an  impromptu  by  Schubert, 
and  a  nocturne  by  Chopin  were  the  selections  he 
cared  for  most,1  though  in  certain  moods  he  asked 
for  the  Scotch  melodies. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  social  life  in  Dublin,  but 
the  dictations  were  seldom  interrupted.  He  became 
lonely,  now  and  then,  and  paid  a  brief  visit  to  New 
York,  or  to  Mr.  Rogers  in  Fairhaven,  but  he  always 
returned  gladly,  for  he  liked  the  rest  and  quiet,  and 
the  dictations  gave  him  employment.  A  part  of  his 
entertainment  was  a  trio  of  kittens  which  he  had 
rented  for  the  summer — rented  because  then  they 
would  not  lose  ownership  and  would  find  home  and 
protection  in  the  fall.  He  named  the  kittens  Sack- 
cloth and  Ashes — Sackcloth  being  a  black-and- 
white  kit,  and  Ashes  a  joint  name  owned  by  the 
two  others,  who  were  gray  and  exactly  alike.  All 
summer  long  these  merry  little  creatures  played  up 

1His  special  favorites  were  Schubert's  Op.  142,  part  2,  and 
Chopin's  Op.  37,  part  2. 

323 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

and  down  the  wide  veranda,  or  chased  butterflies 
and  grasshoppers  down  the  clover  slope,  offering 
Mark  Twain  never-ending  amusement.  He  loved  to 
see  them  spring  into  the  air  after  some  insect,  miss 
it,  tumble  back,  and  quickly  jump  up  again  with  a 
surprised  and  disappointed  expression. 

In  spite  of  his  resolve  not  to  print  any  of  his 
autobiography  until  he  had  been  dead  a  hundred 
years,  he  was  persuaded  during  the  summer  to  allow 
certain  chapters  of  it  to  be  published  in  The  North 
American  Review.  With  the  price  received,  thirty 
thousand  dollars,  he  announced  he  was  going  to 
build  himself  a  country  home  at  Redding,  Connec- 
ticut, on  land  already  purchased  there,  near  a  small 
country  place  of  my  own.  He  wished  to  have  a 
fixed  place  to  go  each  summer,  he  said,  and  his 
thought  was  to  call  it  "Autobiography  House." 


LXII 

A  NEW  ERA  OF   BILLIARDS 

WITH  the  return  to  New  York  I  began  a  period 
of  closer  association  with  Mark  Twain.    Up 
to  that  time  our  relations  had  been  chiefly  of  a  lit- 
erary nature.    They  now  became  personal  as  well. 

It  happened  in  this  way :  Mark  Twain  had  never 
outgrown  his  love  for  the  game  of  billiards,  though 
he  had  not  owned  a  table  since  the  closing  of  the 
Hartford  house,  fifteen  years  before.  Mrs.  Henry 
Rogers  had  proposed  to  present  him  with  a  table 
for  Christmas,  but  when  he  heard  of  the  plan,  boy- 
like,  he  could  not  wait,  and  hinted  that  if  he  had 
the  table  "right  now"  he  could  begin  to  use  it 
sooner.  So  the  table  came — a  handsome  combination 
affair,  suitable  to  all  games — and  was  set  in  place. 
That  morning  when  the  dictation  ended  he  said: 

"Have  you  any  special  place  to  lunch,  to-day?" 

I  replied  that  I  had  not. 

"Lunch  here,"  he  said,  "and  we'll  try  the  new 
billiard-table." 

I  acknowledged  that  I  had  never  played  more 
than  a  few  games  of  pool,  and  those  very  long  ago. 

"No  matter,"  he  said  "the  poorer  you  play  the 
better  I  shall  like  it." 

22  325 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

So  I  remained  for  luncheon,  and  when  it  was  over 
we  began  the  first  game  ever  played  on  the  "Christ- 
mas" table.  He  taught  me  a  game  in  which  caroms 
and  pockets  both  counted,  and  he  gave  me  heavy 
odds.  He  beat  me,  but  it  was  a  riotous,  rollicking 
game,  the  beginning  of  a  closer  relation  between  us. 
We  played  most  of  the  afternoon,  and  he  suggested 
that  I  "come  back  in  the  evening  and  play  some 
more."  I  did  so,  and  the  game  lasted  till  after  mid- 
night. I  had  beginner's  luck — "nigger  luck,"  as  he 
called  it — and  it  kept  him  working  feverishly  to  win. 
Once  when  I  had  made  a  great  fluke — a  carom  fol- 
lowed by  most  of  the  balls  falling  into  the  pockets, 
he  said: 

"When  you  pick  up  that  cue  this  table  drips  at 
every  pore." 

The  morning  dictations  became  a  secondary  inter- 
est. Like  a  boy,  he  was  looking  forward  to  the  after- 
noon of  play,  and  it  seemed  never  to  come  quickly 
enough  to  suit  him.  I  remained  regularly  for  lunch- 
eon, and  he  was  inclined  to  cut  the  courses  short 
that  we  might  the  sooner  get  up-stairs  for  billiards. 
He  did  not  eat  the  midday  meal  himself,  but  he 
would  come  down  and  walk  about  the  dining-room, 
talking  steadily  that  marvelous,  marvelous  talk 
which  little  by  little  I  trained  myself  to  remember, 
though  never  with  complete  success.  He  was  only 
killing  time,  and  I  remember  once,  when  he  had  been 
earnestly  discussing  some  deep  question,  he  suddenly 
noticed  that  the  luncheon  was  ending. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "we  will  proceed  to  more  serious 
matters — it's  your — shot." 
326 


A   NEW    ERA   OF    BILLIARDS 

My  game  improved  with  practice,  and  he  reduced 
my  odds.  He  was  willing  to  be  beaten,  but  not  too 
often.  We  kept  a  record  of  the  games,  and  he  went 
to  bed  happier  if  the  tally-sheet  showed  a  balance 
in  his  favor. 

He  was  not  an  even-tempered  player.  When  the 
game  went  steadily  against  him  he  was  likely  to 
become  critical,  even  fault-finding,  in  his  remarks. 
Then  presently  he  would  be  seized  with  remorse  and 
become  over-gentle  and  attentive,  placing  the  balls 
as  I  knocked  them  into  the  pockets,  hurrying  to 
render  this  service.  I  wished  he  would  not  do  it. 
It  distressed  me  that  he  should  humble  himself.  I 
was  willing  that  he  should  lose  his  temper,  that  he 
should  be  even  harsh  if  he  felt  so  inclined — his  age, 
his  position,  his  genius  gave  him  special  privileges. 
Yet  I  am  glad,  as  I  remember  it  now,  that  the  other 
side  revealed  itself,  for  it  completes  the  sum  of  his 
humanity.  Once  in  a  burst  of  exasperation  he  made 
such  an  onslaught  on  the  balls  that  he  landed  a 
couple  of  them  on  the  floor.  I  gathered  them  up 
and  we  went  on  playing  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
only  he  was  very  gentle  and  sweet,  like  a  summer 
meadow  when  the  storm  has  passed  by.  Presently 
he  said: 

"This  is  a  most  amusing  game.  When  you  play 
badly  it  amuses  me,  and  when  I  play  badly  and  lose 
my  temper  it  certainly  must  amuse  you." 

It  was  but  natural  that  friendship  should  grow  un- 
der such  conditions.      The  disparity  of  our  ages  and 
gifts  no  longer  mattered.    The  pleasant  land  of  play 
is  a  democracy  where  such  things  do  not  count. 
327 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

We  celebrated  his  seventy-first  birthday  by  play- 
ing billiards  all  day.  He  invented  a  new  game  for 
the  occasion,  and  added  a  new  rule  for  it  with  almost 
every  shot.  It  happened  that  no  other  member  of 
the  family  was  at  home — ill-health  had  banished 
every  one,  even  the  secretary.  Flowers,  telegrams, 
and  congratulations  came,  and  a  string  of  callers. 
He  saw  no  one  but  a  few  intimate  friends. 

We  were  entirely  alone  for  dinner,  and  I  felt  the 
great  honor  of  being  his  only  guest  on  such  an 
occasion.  On  that  night,  a  year  before,  the  flower 
of  his  profession  had  assembled  to  do  him  honor. 
Once  between  the  courses,  when  he  rose,  as  was  his 
habit,  to  walk  about,  he  wandered  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  orchestrelle,  began 
to  play  the  beautiful  "Flower  Song"  from  Faust. 
It  was  a  thing  I  had  not  seen  him  do  before,  and  I 
never  saw  him  do  it  again. 

He  was  in  his  loveliest  humor  all  that  day  and 
evening,  and  at  night  when  we  stopped  playing 
he  said: 

"I  have  never  had  a  pleasanter  day  at  this  game." 

I  answered:  "I  hope  ten  years  from  to-night  we 
shall  be  playing  it." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "still  playing  the  best  game  on 
earth." 


LXIII 

LIVING   WITH   MARK   TWAIN 

T  ACCOMPANIED  him  on  a  trip  he  made  to 
A  Washington  in  the  interest  of  copyright.  Speaker 
' '  Uncle  Joe ' '  Cannon  lent  us  his  private  room  in  the 
Capitol,  and  there  all  one  afternoon  Mark  Twain 
received  Congressmen,  and  in  an  atmosphere  blue 
with  cigar-smoke  preached  the  gospel  of  copyright. 
It  was  a  historic  trip,  and  for  me  an  eventful  one, 
for  it  was  on  the  way  back  to  New  York  that  Mark 
Twain  suggested  that  I  take  up  residence  in  his 
home.  There  was  a  room  going  to  waste,  he  said, 
and  I  would  be  handier  for  the  early  and  late  billiard 
sessions.  I  accepted,  of  course. 

Looking  back,  now,  I  see  pretty  vividly  three 
quite  distinct  pictures.  One  of  them,  the  rich,  red 
interior  of  the  billiard-room,  with  the  brilliant  green 
square  in  the  center  on  which  the  gay  balls  are 
rolling,  and  bent  over  it  his  luminous  white  figure 
in  the  instant  of  play.  Then  there  is  the  long 
lighted  drawing-room,  with  the  same  figure  stretched 
on  a  couch  in  the  corner,  drowsily  smoking  while 
the  rich  organ  tones  summon  for  him  scenes  and 
faces  which  the  others  do  not  see.  Sometimes  he 
rose,  pacing  the  length  of  the  parlors,  but  oftener 
329 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

he  lay  among  the  cushions,  the  light  flooding  his 
white  hair  and  dress,  heightening  his  brilliant  color- 
ing. He  had  taken  up  the  fashion  of  wearing  white 
altogether  at  this  time.  Black,  he  said,  reminded 
him  of  his  funerals. 

The  third  picture  is  that  of  the  dinner-table — 
always  beautifully  laid,  and  always  a  shrine  of 
wisdom  when  he  was  there.  He  did  not  always 
talk,  but  he  often  did,  and  I  see  him  clearest,  his 
face  alive  with  interest,  presenting  some  new  angle 
of  thought  in  his  vivid,  inimitable  speech.  These 
are  pictures  that  will  not  fade  from  my  memory. 
How  I  wish  the  marvelous  things  he  said  were  like 
them !  I  preserved  as  much  of  them  as  I  could,  and 
in  time  trained  myself  to  recall  portions  of  his  exact 
phrasing.  But  even  so  they  seemed  never  quite  as 
he  had  said  them.  They  lacked  the  breath  of  his 
personality.  His  dinner-table  talk  was  likely  to  be 
political,  scientific,  philosophic.  He  often  discussed 
aspects  of  astronomy,  which  was  a  passion  with 
him.  I  could  succeed  better  with  the  billiard-room 
talk — that  was  likely  to  be  reminiscent,  full  of  anec- 
dotes. I  kept  a  pad  on  the  window-sill,  and  made 
notes  while  he  was  playing.  At  one  time  he  told  me 
of  his  dreams. 

"There  is  never  a  month  passes,"  he  said,  "that 
I  do  not  dream  of  being  in  reduced  circumstances 
and  obliged  to  go  back  to  the  river  to  earn  a  living. 
Usually  in  my  dream  I  am  just  about  to  start  into 
a  black  shadow  without  being  able  to  tell  whether 
it  is  Selma  Bluff,  or  Hat  Island,  or  only  a  black  wall 
of  night.  Another  dream  I  have  is  being  compelled 


LIVING   WITH    MARK   TWAIN 

to  go  back  to  the  lecture  platform.  In  it  I  am  always 
getting  up  before  an  audience,  with  nothing  to  say, 
trying  to  be  funny,  trying  to  make  the  audience 
laugh,  realizing  I  am  only  making  silly  jokes.  Then 
the  audience  realizes  it,  and  pretty  soon  they  com- 
mence to  get  up  and  leave.  That  dream  always 
ends  by  my  standing  there  in  the  semi-darkness 
talking  to  an  empty  house." 

He  did  not  return  to  Dublin  the  next  summer,  but 
took  a  house  at  Tuxedo,  nearer  New  York.  I  did 
not  go  there  with  him,  for  in  the  spring  it  was  agreed 
that  I  should  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Mississippi 
and  the  Pacific  coast  to  see  those  few  still  remaining 
who  had  known  Mark  Twain  in  his  youth.  John 
Briggs  was  alive,  also  Horace  Bixby,  "Joe"  Good- 
man, Steve  and  Jim  Gillis,  and  there  were  a  few 
others. 

It  was  a  trip  taken  none  too  soon.  John  Briggs, 
a  gentle-hearted  old  man  who  sat  by  his  fire  and 
through  one  afternoon  told  me  of  the  happy  days 
along  the  river-front  from  the  cave  to  Holliday's 
Hill,  did  not  reach  the  end  of  the  year.  Horace 
Bixby,  at  eighty-one,  was  still  young,  and  piloting  a 
government  snag-boat.  Neither  was  Joseph  Good- 
man old,  by  any  means,  but  Jim  Gillis  was  near 
his  end,  and  Steve  Gillis  was  an  invalid,  who  said: 

"Tell  Sam  I'm  going  to  die  pretty  soon,  but  that 
I  love  him;  that  I've  loved  him  all  my  life,  and  I'll 
love  him  till  I  die." 


LXIV 

A   DEGREE   FROM   OXFORD 

ON  my  return  I  found  Mark  Twain  elated:  he 
had  been  invited  to  England  to  receive  the  de- 
gree of  Literary  Doctor  from  the  Oxford  University. 
It  is  the  highest  scholastic  honorary  degree;  and  to 
come  back,  as  I  had,  from  following  the  early  wan- 
derings of  the  barefoot  truant  of  Hannibal,  only  to 
find  him  about  to  be  officially  knighted  by  the  world's 
most  venerable  institution  of  learning,  seemed  rather 
the  most  surprising  chapter  even  of  his  marvelous 
fairy-tale.  If  Tom  Sawyer  had  owned  the  magic 
wand,  he  hardly  could  have  produced  anything  as 
startling  as  that. 

He  sailed  on  the  8th  of  June,  1907,  exactly  forty 
years  from  the  day  he  had  sailed  on  the  Quaker  City 
to  win  his  greater  fame.  I  did  not  accompany  him. 
He  took  with  him  a  secretary  to  make  notes,  and  my 
affairs  held  me  in  America.  He  was  absent  six  weeks, 
and  no  attentions  that  England  had  ever  paid  him 
before  could  compare  with  her  lavish  welcome  during 
this  visit.  His  reception  was  really  national.  He 
was  banqueted  by  the  greatest  clubs  of  London, 
he  was  received  with  special  favor  at  the  King's 
garden  party,  he  traveled  by  a  royal  train,  crowds 
332 


A    DEGREE    FROM    OXFORD 

gathering  everywhere  to  see  him  pass.  At  Oxford 
when  he  appeared  on  the  street  the  name  Mark 
Twain  ran  up  and  down  like  a  cry  of  fire,  and  the 
people  came  running.  When  he  appeared  on  the 
stage  at  the  Sheldonian  Theater  to  receive  his 
degree,  clad  in  his  doctor's  robe  of  scarlet  and  gray, 
there  arose  a  great  tumult — the  shouting  of  the 
undergraduates  for  the  boy  who  had  been  Tom 
Sawyer  and  had  played  with  Huckleberry  Finn. 
The  papers  next  day  spoke  of  his  reception  as  a 
"cyclone,"  surpassing  any  other  welcome,  though 
R.udyard  Kipling  was  one  of  those  who  received 
degrees  on  that  occasion,  and  General  Booth  and 
Whitelaw  Reid,  and  other  famous  men. 

Perhaps  the  most  distinguished  social  honor  paid 
to  Mark  Twain  at  this  time  was  the  dinner  given 
him  by  the  staff  of  London  Punch,  in  the  historic 
Punch  editorial  rooms  on  Bouverie  Street.  No  other 
foreigner  had  ever  been  invited  to  that  sacred  board, 
where  Thackeray  had  sat,  and  Douglas  Jerrold  and 
others  of  the  great  departed.  Punch  had  already 
saluted  him  with  a  front-page  cartoon,  and  at  this 
dinner  the  original  drawing  was  presented  to  him 
by  the  editor's  little  daughter,  Joy  Agnew. 

The  Oxford  degree,  and  the  splendid  homage  paid 
him  by  England  at  large,  became,  as  it  were,  the 
crowning  episode  of  Mark  Twain's  career.  I  think 
he  realized  this,  although  he  did  not  speak  of  it — 
indeed,  he  had  very  little  to  say  of  the  whole  matter. 
I  telephoned  a  greeting  when  I  knew  that  he  had 
arrived  in  New  York,  and  was  summoned  to  "come 
down  and  play  billiards."  I  confess  I  went  with  a 
333 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

good  deal  of  awe,  prepared  to  sit  in  silence  and  listen 
to  the  tale  of  the  returning  hero.  But  when  I  ar- 
rived he  was  already  in  the  billiard-room,  knocking 
the  balls  about — his  coat  off,  for  it  was  a  hot  night. 
As  I  entered,  he  said: 

"Get  your  cue — I've  been  inventing  a  new  game." 
That  was  all.    The  pageant  was  over,  the  curtain 
was  rung  down.    Business  was  resumed  at  the  old 
stand. 


LXV 

THE    REMOVAL   TO    REDDING 

THERE  followed  another  winter  during  which  I 
was  much  with  Mark  Twain,  though  a  part  of 
it  he  spent  with  Mr.  Rogers  in  Bermuda,  that  pretty 
island  resort  which  both  men  loved.  Then  came 
spring  again,  and  June,  and  with  it  Mark  Twain's 
removal  to  his  newly  built  home,  "Stormfield,"  at 
Redding,  Connecticut. 

The  house  had  been  under  construction  for  a 
year.  He  had  never  seen  it — never  even  seen  the 
land  I  had  bought  for  him.  He  even  preferred  not 
to  look  at  any  plans  or  ideas  for  decoration. 

"When  the  house  is  finished  and  furnished,  and 
the  cat  is  purring  on  the  hearth,  it  will  be  time 
enough  for  me  to  see  it,"  he  had  said  more  than 
once. 

He  had  only  specified  that  the  rooms  should  be 
large  and  that  the  billiard-room  should  be  red. 
His  billiard-rooms  thus  far  had  been  of  that  color, 
and  their  memory  was  associated  in  his  mind  with 
enjoyment  and  comfort.  He  detested  details  of 
preparation,  and  then,  too,  he  looked  forward  to 
the  dramatic  surprise  of  walking  into  a  home  that 
had  been  conjured  into  existence  as  with  a  word. 
335 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

It  was  the  i8th  of  June,  1908,  that  he  finally 
took  possession.  The  Fifth  Avenue  house  was  not 
dismantled,  for  it  was  the  plan  then  to  use  Storm- 
field  only  as  a  summer  place.  The  servants,  how- 
ever, with  one  exception,  had  been  transferred  to 
Redding,  and  Mark  Twain  and  I  remained  alone, 
though  not  lonely,  in  the  city  house,  playing  billiards 
most  of  the  time,  and  being  as  hilarious  as  we  pleased, 
for  there  was  nobody  to  disturb.  I  think  he  hardly 
mentioned  the  new  home  during  that  time.  He 
had  never  seen  even  a  photograph  of  the  place,  and 
I  confess  I  had  moments  of  anxiety,  for  I  had  selected 
the  site  and  had  been  more  or  less  concerned  other- 
wise, though  John  Howells  was  wholly  responsible 
for  the  building.  I  did  not  really  worry,  for  I  knew 
how  beautiful  and  peaceful  it  all  was. 

The  morning  of  the  i8th  was  bright  and  sunny 
and  cool.  Mark  Twain  was  up  and  shaved  by  six 
o'clock  in  order  to  be  in  time.  The  train  did  not 
leave  until  four  in  the  afternoon,  but  our  last  bill- 
iards in  town  must  begin  early  and  suffer  no  inter- 
ruption. We  were  still  playing  when,  about  three, 
word  was  brought  up  that  the  cab  was  waiting. 
Arrived  at  the  station,  a  group  collected,  reporters 
and  others,  to  speed  him  to  his  new  home.  Some  of 
the  reporters  came  along. 

The  scenery  was  at  its  best  that  day,  and  he 
spoke  of  it  approvingly.  The  hour  and  a  half  re- 
quired to  cover  the  sixty  miles'  distance  seemed 
short.  The  train  porters  came  to  carry  out  the 
bags.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  great  handful  of 
silver. 

336 


THE    REMOVAL   TO    REDDING 

"Give  them  something,"  he  said;  "give  everybody 
liberally  that  does  any  service." 

There  was  a  sort  of  open-air  reception  in  waiting 
— a  varied  assemblage  of  vehicles  festooned  with 
flowers  had  gathered  to  offer  gallant  country  wel- 
come. It  was  a  perfect  June  evening,  still  and 
dream-like ;  there  seemed  a  spell  of  silence  on  every- 
thing. The  people  did  not  cheer — they  smiled  and 
waved  to  the  white  figure,  and  he  smiled  and  waved 
reply,  but  there  was  no  noise.  It  was  like  a  scene 
in  a  cinema. 

His  carriage  led  the  way  on  the  three-mile  drive  to 
the  house  on  the  hilltop,  and  the  floral  procession 
fell  in  behind.  Hillsides  were  green,  fields  were 
white  with  daisies,  dogwood  and  laurel  shone  among 
the  trees.  He  was  very  quiet  as  we  drove  along. 
Once,  with  gentle  humor,  looking  out  over  a  white 
daisy -field,  he  said: 

"That  is  buckwheat.  I  always  recognize  buck- 
wheat when  I  see  it.  I  wish  I  knew  as  much  about 
other  things  as  I  know  about  buckwheat." 

The  clear-running  brooks,  a  swift-flowing  river,  a 
tumbling  cascade  where  we  climbed  a  hill,  all  came 
in  for  his  approval — then  we  were  at  the  lane  that 
led  to  his  new  home,  and  the  procession  behind 
dropped  away.  The  carriage  ascended  still  higher, 
and  a  view  opened  across  the  Saugatuck  Valley,  with 
its  nestling  village  and  church-spire  and  farm- 
houses, and  beyond  them  the  distant  hills.  Then 
came  the  house — simple  in  design,  but  beautiful — 
an  Italian  villa,  such  as  he  had  known  in  Florence, 
adapted  here  to  American  climate  and  needs. 
337 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

At  the  entrance  his  domestic  staff  waited  to  greet 
him,  and  presently  he  stepped  across  the  threshold 
and  stood  in  his  own  home  for  the  first  time  in  sev- 
enteen years.  Nothing  was  lacking — it  was  as  fin- 
ished, as  completely  furnished,  as  if  he  had  occupied 
it  a  lifetime.  No  one  spoke  immediately,  but  when 
his  eyes  had  taken  in  the  harmony  of  the  place,  with 
its  restful,  home-like  comfort,  and  followed  through 
the  open  French  windows  to  the  distant  vista  of 
treetops  and  farmsides  and  blue  hills,  he  said, 
very  gently: 

"How  beautiful  it  all  is!  I  did  not  think  it  could 
be  as  beautiful  as  this."  And  later,  when  he  had 
seen  all  of  the  apartments :  "  It  is  a  perfect  house — 
perfect,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  in  every  detail.  It  might 
have  been  here  always." 

There  were  guests  that  first  evening — a  small 
home  dinner-party — and  a  little  later  at  the  foot  of 
the  garden  some  fireworks  were  set  off  by  neighbors 
inspired  by  Dan  Beard,  who  had  recently  located  in 
Redding.  Mark  Twain,  watching  the  rockets  that 
announced  his  arrival,  said,  gently: 

"I  wonder  why  they  go  to  so  much  trouble  for 
me.  I  never  go  to  any  trouble  for  anybody," 

The  evening  closed  with  billiards,  hilarious  games, 
and  when  at  midnight  the  cues  were  set  in  the  rack 
no  one  could  say  that  Mark  Twain's  first  day  in  his 
new  home  had  not  been  a  happy  one. 


LXVI 

LIFE    AT   STORMFIELD 

MARK  TWAIN  loved  Stormfield.  Almost  im- 
mediately he  gave  up  the  idea  of  going  back 
to  New  York  for  the  winter,  and  I  think  he  never 
entered  the  Fifth  Avenue  house  again.  The  quiet 
and  undisturbed  comfort  of  Stormfield  came  to  him 
at  the  right  time  of  life.  His  day  of  being  the  "Belle 
of  New  York"  was  over.  Now  and  then  he  at- 
tended some  great  dinner,  but  always  under  protest. 
Finally  he  refused  to  go  at  all.  He  had  much  com- 
pany during  that  first  summer — old  friends,  and  now 
and  again  young  people,  of  whom  he  was  always 
fond.  The  billiard-room  he  called  "the  aquarium," 
and  a  frieze  of  Bermuda  fishes,  in  gay  prints,  ran 
around  the  walls.  Each  young  lady  visitor  was  al- 
lowed to  select  one  of  these  as  her  patron  fish  and 
attach  her  name  to  it.  Thus,  as  a  member  of  the 
"aquarium  club,"  she  was  represented  in  absence. 
Of  course  there  were  several  cats  at  Stormfield,  and 
these  really  owned  the  premises.  The  kittens  scam- 
pered about  the  billiard-table  after  the  balls,  even 
when  the  game  was  in  progress,  giving  all  sorts  of 
new  angles  to  the  shots.  This  delighted  him,  and  he 
339 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

would  not  for  anything  have  discommoded  or  re- 
moved one  of  those  furry  hazards. 

My  own  house  was  a  little  more  than  half  a  mile 
away,  our  lands  joining,  and  daily  I  went  up  to 
visit  him — to  play  billiards  or  to  take  a  walk  across 
the  fields.  There  was  a  stenographer  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  he  continued  his  dictations,  but  not 
regularly.  He  wrote,  too,  now  and  then,  and  fin- 
ished the  little  book  called  Is  Shakespeare  Dead? 

Winter  came.  The  walks  were  fewer,  and  there 
was  even  more  company ;  the  house  was  gay  and  the 
billiard  games  protracted.  In  February  I  made  a 
trip  to  Europe  and  the  Mediterranean,  to  go  over 
some  of  his  ground  there.  Returning  in  April,  I 
found  him  somewhat  changed.  It  was  not  that  he 
had  grown  older,  or  less  full  of  life,  but  only  less 
active,  less  eager  for  gay  company,  and  he  no 
longer  dictated,  or  very  rarely.  His  daughter  Jean, 
who  had  been  in  a  health  resort,  was  coming  home 
to  act  as  his  secretary,  and  this  made  him  very 
happy.  We  resumed  our  games,  our  talks,  and  our 
long  walks  across  the  fields.  There  were  few  guests, 
and  we  were  together  most  of  the  day  and  evening. 
How  beautiful  the  memory  of  it  all  is  now !  To  me, 
of  course,  nothing  can  ever  be  like  it  again  in  this 
world. 

Mark  Twain  walked  slowly  these  days.  Early  in 
the  summer  there  appeared  indications  of  the  heart 
trouble  that  less  than  a  year  later  would  bring  the 
end.  His  doctor  advised  diminished  smoking,  and 
forbade  the  old  habit  of  lightly  skipping  up  and 
down  stairs.  The  trouble  was  with  the  heart  mus- 
340 


LIFE   AT    STORMFIELD 

cles,  and  at  times  there  came  severe  deadly  pains 
in  his  breast,  but  for  the  most  part  he  did  not 
suffer.  He  was  allowed  the  walk,  however,  and 
once  I  showed  him  a  part  of  his  estate  he  had  not 
seen  before — a  remote  cedar  hillside.  On  the  way 
I  pointed  out  a  little  corner  of  land  which  earlier 
he  had  given  me  to  straighten  our  division  line.  I 
told  him  I  was  going  to  build  a  study  on  it  and  call 
it  "Markland."  I  think  the  name  pleased  him. 
Later  he  said : 

"If  you  had  a  place  for  that  extra  billiard-table 
of  mine"  (the  Rogers  table,  which  had  been  left  in 
storage  in  New  York),  "I  would  turn  it  over  to  you." 

I  replied  that  I  could  adapt  the  size  of  my  pro- 
posed study  to  fit  the  table,  and  he  said: 

"Now  that  will  be  very  good.  Then  when  I  want 
exercise  I  can  walk  down  and  play  billiards  with 
you,  and  when  you  want  exercise  you  can  walk  up 
and  play  billiards  with  me.  You  must  build  that 
study." 

So  it  was  planned,  and  the  work  was  presently 
under  way. 

How  many  things  we  talked  of!  Life,  death,  the 
future — all  the  things  of  which  we  know  so  little  and 
love  so  much  to  talk  about.  Astronomy,  as  I  have 
said,  was  one  of  his  favorite  subjects.  Neither  of 
us  had  any  real  knowledge  of  the  matter,  which 
made  its  great  facts  all  the  more  awesome.  The 
thought  that  the  nearest  fixed  star  was  twenty-five 
trillions  of  miles  away — two  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand times  the  distance  to  our  own  remote  sun — gave 
him  a  sort  of  splendid  thrill.  He  would  figure  out 
23  34i 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

those  appalling  measurements  of  space,  covering 
sheets  of  paper  with  his  sums,  but  he  was  not  a  good 
mathematician,  and  the  answers  were  generally 
wrong.  Comets  in  particular  interested  him,  and 
one  day  he  said : 

"I  came  in  with  Halley's  comet  in  1835.  It  is 
coming  again  next  year,  and  I  expect  to  go  out  with 
it.  It  will  be  the  greatest  disappointment  of  my 
life  if  I  don't  go  out  with  Halley's  comet." 

He  looked  so  strong,  and  full  of  color  and  vitality. 
One  could  not  believe  that  his  words  held  a  proph- 
ecy. Yet  the  pains  recurred  with  increasing  fre- 
quency and  severity;  his  malady,  angina  pectoris, 
was  making  progress.  And  how  bravely  he  bore  it 
all!  He  never  complained,  never  bewailed.  I  have 
seen  the  fierce  attack  crumple  him  when  we  were  at 
billiards,  but  he  would  insist  on  playing  in  his  turn, 
bowed,  his  face  white,  his  hand  digging  at  his  breast. 


LXVII 

THE   DEATH   OF  JEAN 

CLARA  CLEMENS  was  married  that  autumn 
to  Ossip  Gabrilowitsch,  the  Russian  pianist,  and 
presently  sailed  for  Europe,  where  they  would  make 
their  home.  Jean  Clemens  was  now  head  of  the 
house,  and  what  with  her  various  duties  and  poor 
health,  her  burden  was  too  heavy.  She  had  a  pas- 
sion for  animal  life  of  every  kind,  and  in  some  farm- 
buildings  at  one  corner  of  the  estate  had  set  up  quite 
an  establishment  of  chickens  and  domestic  animals. 
She  was  fond  of  giving  these  her  personal  attention, 
and  this,  with  her  house  direction  and  secretarial 
work,  gave  her  little  time  for  rest.  I  tried  to  relieve 
her  of  a  share  of  the  secretarial  work,  but  she  was 
ambitious  and  faithful.  Still,  her  condition  did  not 
seem  critical. 

I  stayed  at  Stormfield,  now,  most  of  the  time — 
nights  as  well  as  days — for  the  dull  weather  had 
come  and  Mark  Twain  found  the  house  rather  lonely. 
In  November  he  had  an  impulse  to  go  to  Bermuda, 
and  we  spent  a  month  in  the  warm  light  of  that 
summer  island,  returning  a  week  before  the  Christ- 
mas holidays.  And  just  then  came  Mark  Twain's 
last  great  tragedy — the  death  of  his  daughter  Jean. 

The  holidays  had  added  heavily  to  Jean's  labors. 
343 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Out  of  her  generous  heart  she  had  planned  gifts  for 
everybody — had  hurried  to  and  from  the  city  for 
her  purchases,  and  in  the  loggia  set  up  a  beautiful 
Christmas  tree.  Meantime  she  had  contracted  a 
heavy  cold.  Her  trouble  was  epilepsy,  and  all 
this  was  bad  for  her.  On  the  morning  of  Dec- 
ember 24,  she  died,  suddenly,  from  the  shock  of  a 
cold  bath. 

Below,  in  the  loggia,  drenched  with  tinsel,  stood 
the  tree,  and  heaped  about  it  the  packages  of  gifts 
which  that  day  she  had  meant  to  open  and  put  in 
place.  Nobody  had  been  overlooked. 

Jean  was  taken  to  Elmira  for  burial.  Her  father, 
unable  to  make  the  winter  journey,  remained  be- 
hind. Her  cousin,  Jervis  Langdon,  came  for  her. 

It  was  six  in  the  evening  when  she  went  away.  A 
soft,  heavy  snow  was  falling,  and  the  gloom  of  the 
short  day  was  closing  in.  There  was  not  the  least 
noise,  the  whole  world  was  muffled.  The  lanterns 
shone  out  the  open  door,  and  at  an  upper  window, 
the  light  gleaming  on  his  white  hair,  her  father 
watched  her  going  away  from  him  for  the  last  time. 
Later  he  wrote : 

From  my  window  I  saw  the  hearse  and  the  carriages 
wind  along  the  road  and  gradually  grow  vague  and  spec- 
tral in  the  falling  snow,  and  presently  disappear.  Jean 
was  gone  out  of  my  life,  and  would  not  come  back  any 
more.  The  cousin  she  had  played  with  when  they  were 
babies  together — he  and  her  beloved  old  Katy — were 
conducting  her  to  her  distant  childhood  home,  where  she 
will  lie  by  her  mother's  side  once  more,  in  the  company 
of  Susy  and  Langdon. 

344 


LXVIII 

DAYS   IN   BERMUDA 

'"PEN  days  later  Mark  Twain  returned  to  Bermuda, 
1  accompanied  only  by  a  valet.  He  had  asked  me 
if  we  would  be  willing  to  close  our  home  for  the 
winter  and  come  to  Stormfield,  so  that  the  place 
might  be  ready  any  time  for  his  return.  We  came, 
of  course,  for  there  was  no  thought  other  than  for 
his  comfort.  He  did  not  go  to  a  hotel  in  Bermuda, 
but  to  the  home  of  Vice-Consul  Allen,  where  he 
had  visited  before.  The  Aliens  were  devoted  to 
him  and  gave  him  such  care  as  no  hotel  could  offer. 
Bermuda  agreed  with  Mark  Twain,  and  for  a 
time  there  he  gained  in  strength  and  spirits  and  re- 
covered much  of  his  old  manner.  He  wrote  me  al- 
most daily,  generally  with  good  reports  of  his 
health  and  doings,  and  with  playful  counsel  and 
suggestions.  Then,  by  and  by,  he  did  not  write  with 
his  own  hand,  but  through  his  newly  appointed  ' '  sec- 
retary," Mr.  Allen's  young  daughter,  Helen,  of  whom 
he  was  very  fond.  The  letters,  however,  were  still 
gay.  Once  he  said: 

While  the  matter  is  in  my  mind  I  will  remark  that  if 
you  ever  send  me  another  letter  which  is  not  paged  at  the 
345 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

top  I  will  write  you  with  my  own  hand,  so  that  I  may 
use  in  utter  freedom  and  without  embarrassment  the  kind 
of  words  which  alone  can  describe  such  a  criminal. 

He  had  made  no  mention  so  far  of  the  pains  in 
his  breast,  but  near  the  end  of  March  he  wrote  that 
he  was  coming  home,  if  the  breast  pains  did  not 
"mend  their  ways  pretty  considerable.  I  do  not 
want  to  die  here,"  he  said.  ' '  I  am  growing  more  and 
more  particular  about  the  place."  A  week  later 
brought  another  alarming  letter,  also  one  from  Mr. 
Allen,  who  frankly  stated  that  matters  had  become 
very  serious  indeed.  I  went  to  New  York  and 
sailed  the  next  morning,  cabling  the  Gabrilowitsches 
to  come  without  delay. 

I  sent  no  word  to  Bermuda  that  I  was  coming, 
and  when  I  arrived  he  was  not  expecting  me. 

"Why,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "you  did 
not  tell  us  you  were  coming?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "it  is  rather  sudden.  I  didn't  quite 
like  the  sound  of  your  last  letters." 

"But  those  were  not  serious.  You  shouldn't 
have  come  on  my  account." 

I  said  then  that  I  had  come  on  my  own  account, 
that  I  had  felt  the  need  of  recreation,  and  had  de- 
cided to  run  down  and  come  home  with  him. 

"That's — very — good,"  he  said,  in  his  slow,  gentle 
fashion.  "Now  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

His  breakfast  came  in  and  he  ate  with  appetite. 
I  had  thought  him  thin  and  pale,  at  first  sight,  but 
his  color  had  come  back  now,  and  his  eyes  were 
bright.  He  told  me  of  the  fierce  attacks  of  the 
pain,  and  how  he  had  been  given  hypodermic  in- 
346 


DAYS    IN    BERMUDA 

jections,  which  he  amusingly  termed  "  hypnotic  in- 
junctions" and  "the  sub-cutaneous."  From  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Allen  I  learned  how  slender  had  beenhis  chances, 
and  how  uncertain  were  the  days  ahead.  Mr.  Allen 
had  already  engaged  passage  home  for  April  i2th. 

He  seemed  so  little  like  a  man  whose  days  were 
numbered.  On  the  afternoon  of  my  arrival  we  drove 
out,  as  we  had  done  on  our  former  visit,  and  he  dis- 
cussed some  of  the  old  subjects  in  quite  the  old 
way.  I  had  sold  for  him,  for  six  thousand  dollars, 
the  farm  where  Jean  had  kept  her  animals,  and  he 
wished  to  use  the  money  in  erecting  for  her  some 
sort  of  memorial.  He  agreed  that  a  building  to  hold 
the  library  which  he  had  already  donated  to  the 
town  of  Redding  would  be  appropriate  and  useful. 
He  asked  me  to  write  at  once  to  his  lawyer  and  have 
the  matter  arranged. 

We  did  not  drive  out  again.  The  pains  held  off 
for  several  days,  and  he  was  gay  and  went  out  on 
the  lawn,  but  most  of  the  time  he  sat  propped  up  in 
bed,  reading  and  smoking.  When  I  looked  at  him 
there,  so  full  of  vigor  and  the  joy  of  life,  I  could  not 
persuade  myself  that  he  would  not  outlive  us  all. 

He  had  written  very  little  in  Bermuda — his  last 
work  being  a  chapter  of  amusing  "Advice" — for  me, 
as  he  confessed — what  I  was  to  do  upon  reaching  the 
gate  of  which  St.  Peter  is  said  to  keep  the  key.  As 
it  is  the  last  writing  he  ever  did,  and  because  it  is 
characteristic,  one  or  two  paragraphs  may  be  ad- 
mitted here: 

Upon  arrival  do  not  speak  to  St.  Peter  until  spoken  to. 
It  is  not  your  place  to  begin. 
347 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

Do  not  begin  any  remark  with  "Say." 

When  applying  for  a  ticket  avoid  trying  to  make  con- 
versation. If  you  must  talk,  let  the  weather  alone.  .  .  . 

You  can  ask  him  for  his  autograph — there  is  no  harm 
in  that — but  be  careful  and  don't  remark  that  it  is  one  of 
the  penalties  of  greatness.  He  has  heard  that  before. 

There  were  several  pages  of  this  counsel. 


LXIX 

THE    RETURN    TO    REDDING 

T  SPENT  most  of  each  day  with  him,  merely  sitting 
A  by  the  bed  and  reading.  I  noticed  when  he  slept 
that  his  breathing  was  difficult,  and  I  could  see  that 
he  did  not  improve,  but  often  he  was  gay  and  liked 
the  entire  family  to  gather  about  and  be  merry. 
It  was  only  a  few  days  before  we  sailed  that  the 
severe  attacks  returned.  Then  followed  bad  nights; 
but  respite  came,  and  we  sailed  on  the  i2th,  as  ar- 
ranged. The  Allen  home  stands  on  the  water,  and 
Mr.  Allen  had  chartered  a  tug  to  take  us  to  the  ship. 
We  were  obliged  to  start  early,  and  the  fresh  morn- 
ing breeze  was  stimulating.  Mark  Twain  seemed 
in  good  spirits  when  we  reached  the  Oceana,  which 
was  to  take  him  home. 

As  long  as  I  remember  anything  I  shall  remember 
the  forty-eight  hours  of  that  homeward  voyage. 
He  was  comfortable  at  first,  and  then  we  ran  into 
the  humid,  oppressive  air  of  the  Gulf  Stream,  and 
he  could  not  breathe.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  end 
might  come  at  any  moment,  and  this  thought  was 
in  his  own  mind,  but  he  had  no  dread,  and  his  sense 
of  humor  did  not  fail.  Once  when  the  ship  rolled 
349 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

and  his  hat  fell  from  the  hook  and  made  the  circuit 
of  the  cabin  floor,  he  said: 

"The  ship  is  passing  the  hat." 

I  had  been  instructed  in  the  use  of  the  hypodermic 
needle,  and  from  time  to  time  gave  him  the  "hyp- 
notic injunction,"  as  he  still  called  it.  But  it  did 
not  afford  him  entire  relief.  He  could  remain  in  no 
position  for  any  length  of  time.  Yet  he  never  com- 
plained and  thought  only  of  the  trouble  he  might  be 
making.  Once  he  said: 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  Paine,  but  I  can't  help  it — 
I  can't  hurry  this  dying  business." 

And  a  little  later: 

"Oh,  it  is  such  a  mystery,  and  it  takes  so  long!" 

Relatives,  physicians,  and  news-gatherers  were  at 
the  dock  to  welcome  him.  Revived  by  the  cool, 
fresh  air  of  the  North,  he  had  slept  for  several  hours 
and  was  seemingly  much  better.  A  special  com- 
partment on  the  same  train  that  had  taken  us  first 
to  Redding  took  us  there  now,  his  physicians  in 
attendance.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  the  trip  or 
the  drive  home. 

As  we  turned  into  the  lane  that  led  to  Stormfield 
he  said: 

"Can  we  see  where  you  have  built  your  billiard- 
room?" 

The  gable  of  the  new  study  showed  among  the 
trees,  and  I  pointed  it  out  to  him. 

"It  looks  quite  imposing,"  he  said. 

Arriving  at  Stormfield,  he  stepped,  unassisted,  from 
the  carriage  to  greet  the  members  of  the  household, 
and  with  all  his  old  courtliness  offered  each  his 
35«> 


THE    RETURN   TO    REDDING 

hand.  Then  in  a  canvas  chair  we  had  brought  we 
carried  him  up-stairs  to  his  room — the  big,  beautiful 
room  that  looked  out  to  the  sunset  hills.  This  was 
Thursday  evening,  April  14,  1910. 


LXX 

THE   CLOSE   OF  A   GREAT  LIFE 

MARK  TWAIN  lived  just  a  week  from  that  day 
and  hour.  For  a  time  he  seemed  full  of  life, 
talking  freely,  and  suffering  little.  Clara  and  Ossip 
Gabrilowitsch  arrived  on  Saturday  and  found  him 
cheerful,  quite  like  himself.  At  intervals  he  read. 
Suetonius  and  Carlyle  lay  on  the  bed  beside 
him,  and  he  would  pick  them  up  and  read  a  page  or 
a  paragraph.  Sometimes  when  I  saw  him  thus — the 
high  color  still  in  his  face,  the  clear  light  in  his  eyes'— - 
I  said:  "It  is  not  reality.  He  is  not  going  to  die.' 

But  by  Wednesday  of  the  following  week  it  was 
evident  that  the  end  was  near.  We  did  not  know  it 
then,  but  the  mysterious  messenger  of  his  birth  year, 
Halley's  comet,  became  visible  that  night  in  the  sky.1 

On  Thursday  morning,  the  2ist,  his  mind  was  still 
fairly  clear,  and  he  read  a  little  from  one  of  the 
volumes  on  his  bed.  By  Clara  he  sent  word  that  he 
wished  to  see  me,  and  when  I  came  in  he  spoke  of 
two  unfinished  manuscripts  which  he  wished  me  to 
"throw  away,"  as  he  briefly  expressed  it,  for  his 
words  were  few,  now,  and  uncertain.  I  assured  him 

1  See  reference  in  Chapter  Ixvi. 
352 


THE    CLOSE   OF   A   GREAT   LIFE 

that  I  would  attend  to  the  matter  and  he  pressed  my 
hand.  It  was  his  last  word  to  me.  During  the  after- 
noon, while  Clara  stood  by  him,  he  sank  into  a 
doze,  and  from  it  passed  into  a  deeper  slumber  and 
did  not  heed  us  any  more. 

Through  that  peaceful  spring  afternoon  the  life- 
wave  ebbed  lower  and  lower.  It  was  about  half- 
past  six,  and  the  sun  lay  just  on  the  horizon,  when 
Dr.  Quintard  noticed  that  the  breathing,  which  had 
gradually  become  more  subdued,  broke  a  little. 
There  was  no  suggestion  of  any  struggle.  The  noble 
head  turned  a  little  to  one  side,  there  was  a  flutter- 
ing sigh,  and  the  breath  that  had  been  unceasing  for 
seventy-four  tumultuous  years  had  stopped  forever. 

In  the  Brick  Church,  New  York,  Mark  Twain — 
dressed  in  the  white  he  loved  so  well — lay,  with  the 
nobility  of  death  upon  him,  while  a  multitude  of 
those  who  loved  him  passed  by  and  looked  at  his 
face  for  the  last  time.  Flowers  in  profusion  were 
banked  about  him,  but  on  the  casket  lay  a  single 
wreath  which  Dan  Beard  and  his  wife  had  woven 
from  the  laurel  which  grows  on  Stormfield  hill.  He 
was  never  more  beautiful  than  as  he  lay  there,  and  it 
was  an  impressive  scene  to  see  those  thousands  file 
by,  regard  him  for  a  moment,  gravely,  thoughtfully, 
and  pass  on.  All  sorts  were  there,  rich  and  poor; 
some  crossed  themselves,  some  saluted,  some  paused 
a  little  to  take  a  closer  look. 

That  night  we  went  with  him  to  Elmira,  and  next 
day  he  lay  in  those  stately  parlors  that  had  seen  his 
wedding-day,  and  where  little  Langdon  and  Susy 
353 


THE    BOYS'    LIFE    OF    MARK    TWAIN 

had  lain,  and  Mrs.  Clemens,  and  then  Jean,  only  a 
little  while  before. 

The  worn-out  body  had  reached  its  journey's 
end;  but  his  spirit  had  never  grown  old,  and  to-day, 
still  young,  it  continues  to  cheer  and  comfort  a  tired 
world. 


THE    END 


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